


Lounge Fly

by narcissablaxk



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Barbara Kean - Freeform, College AU, Drug Use, Found Family, M/M, Mental Illness, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Nygmobblepot, Oswald pines for the boys, Parent Death, Slow Burn, Tabitha Galavan - Freeform, Therapy, gobblepot, professor/student, selina kyle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 19:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: Jim Gordon decides, after a decade in the army, to go to college. As luck would have it, one of his first classes is Introduction to Psychology, taught by Oswald Cobblepot, MA.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I just love college AUs. I'm usually pretty strict about not writing professor/student AUs when the professor is actually the student's teacher, but Jim and Oswald are virtually the same age, since Jim is a non-traditional student. Title is inspired by Lounge Fly, a Stone Temple Pilots song.

James Gordon, former soldier in the U.S. Army, first decided to serve his country when he realized high school had flown by, and once the hats had been tossed and the graduation parties were over, he had nothing to show for it. Sure, he had a letterman jacket and lots of signatures in his yearbook, but did that really matter, anyway? Three weeks into what was touted as the “greatest summer in a man’s life” and he was lost without a compass. Worse, without a destination.

He wasn’t a good enough athlete to be a professional, he wasn’t smart enough to get into a good school, and, truth be told, he wasn’t even proficient enough in any one particular class that he knew what he would major in at any school. 

So, by July, when he still hadn’t applied to any colleges, his father sat him down on the sofa and told him he had until August to finish an application, or he was going into the Army. He went down to the recruiter’s office and enlisted that very day; in retrospect, he supposed that was supposed to be some sort of rebellious gesture, some gigantic middle finger to what was a well-intentioned ultimatum from his dad. 

Instead, he got shipped off to Afghanistan for a few years, came back, got sent to Virginia, and then back out to Afghanistan for a few more years. 

By the time he decided to leave the service, he was just shy of 30. He hadn’t been in the Army long enough to get any sort of high rank that he could brag about when he left, and he certainly hadn’t been there long enough to get any sort of military degree. 

So, he found himself, at twenty-nine years old, standing in the same spot he had been when he was eighteen. 

He applied to Gotham University on a lark, thinking he surely wasn’t going to get in. But then the acceptance letter was there, and his time in the Army gave him the opportunity to go to school for free, give or take. It was already set up, all he had to do was sign a few forms and register for classes. 

August 24 found him sitting in his first class, Introduction to Psychology, at 10 a.m. He sat in the middle, by the window, where he could inevitably stare at the people walking by when the lecture got too boring. The class was full, almost forty students all sitting at tables designed to sit two each. Most of them were just out of high school, still cocky from their own “greatest summer in a man’s life,” bored by the mundane routine that was the first day of college; they were all neck-deep in their cell phones, headphones deep in their ears. A few of them looked nervous; their textbooks bright and shiny and never used on the desk in front of them, flawless notebooks opened to the front page.

He was, by a quick glance, the oldest person in the class, except for maybe the dark-haired TA sitting at the front of the class, his feet up on the table. He surveyed his own desk space; a used textbook, dog-eared and well worn, a pen he stole from Chile’s by accident, and a notebook he had used in the Army to take notes. There were only about twenty pages left unmarked, but he was loath to throw it out unless it was full. 

The clock tower outside on the quad clanged loudly, marking ten o’clock. Carefully, the TA at the front of the room lowered his legs to the floor and stood, unfolding to Jim the view of a pressed black suit, his tie deep purple. His eyes, previously glued to a stack of papers in front of him, were an alarming shade of blue, edging on gray. 

“Good morning, class,” he said, his voice commanding, without a hint of a tremble. “My name is Oswald Cobblepot. You can call me Mr. Cobblepot. No ‘doctor’ is necessary, so please, do not flatter me with it.” 

Jim smiled, an exhaled laugh the best he could do. The rest of the class remained silent; Mr. Cobblepot’s eyes swiveled over to him when the sound interrupted the silence. Jim met his gaze, his smile held. 

After a moment, Mr. Cobblepot dropped his eyes to the papers in his hand. 

“On the syllabus, you’ll find my contact information, along with my office number and office hours,” he continued. “If you cannot meet with me during those designated times but still need to speak with me privately, please email me to schedule an appointment. I generally try to be flexible for students.” 

He stepped out from behind the desk, his gait a little stunted, one leg’s stride a little shorter than the rest, and passed the stack of syllabi to the student in the front, jutting his chin to let him know to take one and pass the rest. Jim, against his better judgment, leaned forward in his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the rest of him. 

Just barely, he could see the outline of a leg brace, almost completely hidden against his slacks. 

“Now, how many of you are true freshmen?” Mr. Cobblepot asked. When no one moved, he smirked and clarified, “Fresh out of high school.” 

A flurry of hands went up, almost all of them. Jim felt his face heat and struggled not to slide down in his chair to hide himself. Mr. Cobblepot took in the hands with a slight smile. 

“Okay, and how many of you are sophomores who put off taking this class until your advisor told you that you had to take it?” A few hands went up, all in the back row. Cobblepot nodded knowingly, turning back toward the blackboard; about halfway there, his eyes fell on Jim. “You didn’t put your hand up.” 

Jim shrugged, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’m not either of those things,” he said. 

“Color me intrigued, Mr. –”

“Gordon,” Jim answered obediently. “James Gordon.” 

“James,” Cobblepot tested the name in his mouth, his smile still encouraging. “If you are not either of those things, perhaps you could enlighten me.” 

Jim hesitated, his eyes searching the desk for an answer. Could he refuse to answer the question? No, that would bring even more attention to himself, and it would certainly set a bad precedent for this class. Besides, something in him wanted to let this TA know that he wasn’t another eighteen year old kid. 

“I am a freshman,” he began as the stack of syllabi slid up to his place. “But I spent the first ten years or so after high school in the Army.” 

Cobblepot raised his eyebrows, just for a second, but Jim watched the movement obsessively. What did that mean, exactly? Was he impressed? Unimpressed? Shocked? To make himself look away, Jim grabbed a syllabus and passed the stack of papers along. 

Oswald Cobblepot, MA, it read across the top. Lecturer of Psychology. 

Wait…he scanned the top again, his eyes sliding past the office hours, office number, email address. Nowhere did it say TA. Was this guy…?

Before he could stop himself, he thrust his hand into the air, stopping Cobblepot cold in his tracks. “Mr. Gordon?” he asked. “Question?” 

“You’re our teacher?” Jim blurted. 

The class tittered, a small slither of response that made Jim self-conscious all over again. 

“What did you think I was?” Cobblepot asked, surprised. 

Jim paused. “I – I don’t know,” he hedged. “A TA, maybe?” 

Cobblepot laughed, a chuckle that made Jim’s shoulders lose a little bit of their tension. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment, because I look so young. Isn’t that right, James?” He didn’t wait for Jim to answer, which was lucky, because Jim had no idea how to respond. “No, I am a fully-fledged lecturer, which means I have a master’s degree, but not a PhD, which is why you don’t need to call me ‘doctor.’” 

“How old are you, then?” a student interrupted, and Jim turned halfway in his seat to find her, a pretty blonde girl, hair pulled back in a ponytail, her pen sticking out of it. 

Cobblepot grinned. “Old enough, Miss –”

“Kean,” the girl helpfully supplied. “You’re really not going to tell us?” 

“Wanting is the root of all success, Miss Kean,” Cobblepot replied, turning away from the class to the blackboard. “Now, let’s talk about my classroom rules.” 

***

After three classes and two hours of office hours, Oswald was glad to finally see the inside of his apartment; he nudged the door open with his good foot, his arm braced on the door frame. The living room lamp was on, illuminating the edge of his roommate, eyes glued to a huge textbook. 

“Oswald,” Edward said without looking up from his reading, “how was the first day of class?” 

“Same old, same old,” Oswald intoned, setting his briefcase down on the couch. He followed right after it, propping his bad leg up on the coffee table. He took a moment to observe Ed, the sharp edges of his face softened by whatever he was reading. In moments like this, when he was calm, Edward was truly beautiful. “What about you? First day of classes?” 

“Only three other PhD candidates in forensic science that I’ve met so far,” Edward answered, finally closing the book and allowing his gaze to settle on Oswald for more than a few seconds at a time. “The only one with any real merit is a woman named Leslie Thompkins. But she’s considering dropping out to go to medical school instead.” 

“How was the class?” 

Edward shrugged. “Not entirely engaging, but it was only the first day.” Sensing that the conversation was almost over, his hand moved toward the textbook again. Oswald caught the movement with a fond roll of his eyes. They had been friends a long while, at least three years, and roommates for almost two. He knew almost all of Edward’s quirks and irritating habits, just as Edward knew him. 

“One of my intro to psych students is a non-traditional,” he offered before he was completely shut out. “He looks to be about our age.” 

“And a freshman?” Edward sniffed. “What kind of wayward soul is he?” 

Oswald shrugged. “Not sure yet.” 

Edward reached for the book with purpose this time, Oswald’s conversation not stimulating enough to keep his attention. “There’s a mixer for PhD candidates and professors at the end of the week,” he said absently. “Are you going?” 

Oswald felt hope flutter in his chest. “That depends,” he said. “Are you?” 

Edward shrugged one shoulder. “I’m thinking about it. I thought we could go together.” 

The hope in Oswald’s chest unfurled into a pleasant warmth. “That sounds lovely, Edward,” he said, gratified. “I would love to go.” 

***

Thursday evening was college night at the local bar. At least, it was at the run down dive bar two blocks from the university. Jim had ordered one drink there, a beer, and surveyed the place before quickly realizing this was not somewhere he could return. College night meant the place was packed to bursting, full of eighteen year olds pledging sororities and fraternities doing shots at the end of the bar, dancing on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room. The music was almost painfully loud and definitely nothing he’d ever listen to if he were given the choice. Drinks were served in weirdly shaped glasses, all frosty and yellow or pink, a little umbrella sticking out of the top. 

He sat at his place at the bar for a while, maybe an hour, watching the same blonde girl from class, Miss Kean, the teacher had called her, flirting with a darker girl with a long, black ponytail. They looked to be more conspirators than anything else, whispering into each other’s ear while looking around the bar furtively. 

“You gonna stare at ‘em all night or are you gonna talk to them?” the girl behind the bar asked as she slid his beer over the counter. “Because I can already tell ya, you’re gonna strike out.” 

“I’m not going to talk to them,” Jim replied, taking a sip of his beer. The bartender raised her eyebrows at him, unamused. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. “Are you – are you even old enough to work in a bar?” 

She smirked. “Who said I worked in a bar?” 

Jim was about to reply something sarcastic, because clearly she does work in a bar, but instead, she turned on her heel and drifted away, around the back of the bar and out the front door. She didn’t look back, and no one looked like they’d noticed her at all. For a moment, Jim was sure he was hallucinating. She had really been there, hadn’t she? Yes, she had to be, because he had his beer. 

“Are you the Sigma Alpha Gamma pledge leader?” the girl beside him, dressed in the tiniest skirt and a pink tank top with the letters ZET shouted over the music. 

Jim looked down at himself, old army shirt, dark jeans. Did he look like some frat guy? 

“No,” he replied. 

“Oh,” she sneered, giving him a disgusted once-over before she stumbled away, her pink drink almost tipping over. 

No, Jim was far too old to be here. He was old enough that drinking in peace was far more valuable than a half-price beer. Before he could overthink it, he tossed a five over the bar counter, more than enough for the beer he didn’t drink, and left. 

The parking lot was peacefully quiet, enough so that Jim considered just standing out there for a while, reveling in the open air, the lack of thudding bass, the crisp smell of the evening. But even as he thought it, another car pulled up, this one a black convertible full of guys with popped collars. 

It was safer in his car. 

***

The Green Jay bar was over ten blocks away from campus, full of dark wood and maroon walls. It had soft music playing, so quietly you could almost forget it was there at all. Oswald loved it here; he enjoyed spending some of his evenings here, listening to the lounge singer when there was one, reading and drinking a glass of red wine when Edward needed the apartment to talk loudly to himself about his dissertation. 

Tonight he was there for the piano player, hunched over the white and black keys like she was possessed. She played like her entire life depended on it, and yet her songs never lacked a soft finesse that Oswald found intoxicating. 

She was in the second hour of her set, nearing the end of her tenure on the stage for the evening, and even Oswald felt the night coming to a close. 

A shadow passed by him on his way to the stage, a twenty dollar bill in his hand. He dropped it into the tip bowl at the foot of the stage, giving the pianist a nod at her grateful smile. He passed by Oswald’s booth, the light catching him just as he turned back toward his table. 

The student from yesterday, Oswald thought, surprised. He followed him with his eyes, watched him take the seat a table near the back of the room, alone. There was an empty beer glass in front of him, a little bit of foam still lurking at the bottom. Oswald took him in, more completely than he could in the light of the classroom. Yes, he had to be about his age, he confirmed as his eyes found the curve of his shoulders, the tight biceps under the sleeves of his shirt. 

There was a tension in his spine, something Oswald immediately chalked up to being uncomfortable in a new space. He was a new student after all, and probably relatively new to the city. He certainly wasn’t the normal demographic of people who came to this bar, mostly stuffy intellectuals and forty-somethings. But still, he looked…rather lonely.

He was wearing a US Army shirt. That explained a few things, Oswald noted, his gaze tracing the stubble on his jaw, the peek of a tattoo under the sleeve of his shirt. He certainly was attractive, in a way that was almost completely opposite of the kind of men Oswald usually found alluring, but objectively speaking, he was easy to look at. 

That is, until his eyes shifted from the pianist on stage and landed right on him. 

Immediately, with a surge of panic uncharacteristic of himself, Oswald turned around, fixing his eyes forward. Well, that was incredibly suspicious, he thought ruefully. Against his better judgment, he turned back. 

He was still looking at him, as if trying to confirm that he was really there. After an agonizing few seconds of eye contact, his face softened into a nervous smile. He raised one hand in a wave. With a breath of relief, Oswald returned it. 

They did not speak.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's second day in psychology class only reminds him that he still feels out of place in college, Oswald and Edward have different plans for the faculty mixer, and Jim receives terrible news.

Jim woke on Friday morning, still trying to shake his psychology teacher from his mind. Growing up in a small suburb meant he was accustomed to seeing his teachers outside of the classroom – whether that was the grocery store, the town festival, church – but seeing him at a bar, and knowing that Mr. Cobblepot had seen him too…it was embarrassing, for some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

Maybe it was the wave. 

The damn _wave_ , Jim reprimanded himself as he watched his morning coffee dribble into the pot, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Of all the childish, awkward moves, he went with a _wave?_ A more professional man would’ve walked over and shaken his hand. A more secure man wouldn’t have felt the need to wave at all. Yet here he was, unprofessional and insecure. 

His morning continued in much the same vein, self-loathing, curiosity, and right back around to self-loathing. He managed to get dressed in a particularly fortunate wave of curiosity and put on a button-down blue shirt instead of a ragged Army one, and the self-loathing didn’t hit him again until he was walking through the door of his psychology class and caught Mr. Cobblepot’s gaze again. 

He held it, trying with all of his might not to be the awkward student who couldn’t handle seeing his professor outside of the classroom. For all he knew, that was a typical Thursday night at Gotham University. But, as Mr. Cobblepot tore his gaze away from him and back to the textbook open on the table, Jim thought he saw a blush inching its way up his neck. 

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one unfamiliar with this particular nuance of social interaction. 

“James,” the girl Jim only knew as ‘Miss Kean’ beckoned him, patting the empty seat beside her. With a furrowed brow, Jim took it. “You were at the Sirens bar last night, right?” she asked. She didn’t wait for his answer. “Apparently, someone robbed it. Just walked right out with a bunch of money!” 

Immediately, Jim recalled the fifteen year old “bartender” who slipped out the front door without anyone noticing. “It was pretty hectic last night,” he agreed noncommittally. 

“You thought so?” she asked, leaning her chin on her palm. “Imagine if you had stuck around longer than fifteen minutes.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, her pout shiny with lipgloss. Jim wasn’t completely dense; he knew how to play this part of the game. 

“Perhaps I will next time,” he replied. 

“You better,” she said coyly. 

“Good morning, class,” Mr. Cobblepot’s voice pulled him straight forward again, and without even a moment to celebrate his success, Jim’s eyes were on his again, and the pretty girl beside him was forgotten. “Today we’re going to discuss psychology. Before you can study the science, you have to know where it came from.”

Class passed in a flurry of activity – as soon as Jim saw the girl beside him (whose name was Barbara, according to the top of her psychology notebook) take out a pen and start scribbling notes, he followed suit. But he was constantly losing what Mr. Cobblepot was saying, focusing on the act of writing legibly, on remembering what was said. By the time he finished writing one piece of notes, he had missed another three. 

At the end of the fifty minutes, he felt absolutely downtrodden, and his hand ached. He had, if he was generous, three-quarters of a page of notes, the first few lines perfectly written, the rest a degenerating pile of garbage that was largely unreadable by the end. 

Truthfully, if he squinted, all he could get out of those notes was that psychology was the study of the mind and behavior. The rest was a blur of the words “research psychologists” and “psychologist practitioners” and even now, while the class was packing up, Jim couldn’t even define those two terms. 

He was drowning. 

It was the third day of college and his second day in this class, and he was already behind. He sighed, trying to hide the sound from Barbara, just in case she was as vocal with him as she was in class. Beside him, she shifted in his direction and he tensed, feeling the muscles in his arms go rigid, but she was just putting her notebook away. 

He was freaking out over nothing. 

And then it started: almost as if someone had taken the volume dial on his life and started cranking it up, suddenly Jim could hear every single student’s conversations, all of their backpacks zipping, their pens clicking, the sound of the chairs against the floor, the desks rattling, the sound of someone’s music dribbling from their headphones. 

He wanted to shove his hands over his ears and flee, he wanted to crawl under his desk and sit there until everyone left, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t give away how he felt. He couldn’t make a spectacle of himself. 

Instead he opened his notebook to an old page and pressed the nib of his pen into the paper, sharper and sharper, letting the rage and fear out in the pressure of the pen. He breathed, the sound loud and foreign to his ears and moved the pen, tracing deep figure-eights into the paper, deeper and deeper until the paper tore around the pen, and into the next page until that one tore too, and again, and again, and again –

“Mr. Gordon?” 

And then silence. 

Jim looked up from his notebook, his eyes avoiding Mr. Cobblepot to search the rest of the classroom, suddenly empty of other students. When had they left? When had the sound stopped? He exhaled, the sound loud in the quiet, and brought his eyes to Mr. Cobblepot, who was looking at him with something like understanding. 

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, as if he were paying extra attention to how loud his voice was. Immediately, once he noticed the deference, Jim felt anger and embarrassment wash over him. It filled him like a tidal wave, and he stood, his chair slamming into the table behind him in his haste. “Hey, hey,” Mr. Cobblepot said hastily, “it’s okay, take a moment.” 

But Jim didn’t stay long enough to hear exactly what Mr. Cobblepot wanted him to do; he tucked his backpack under his arm and fled, the door sliding closed in his wake. 

***

“And then he just ran,” Oswald finished, adjusting the knot in his tie in the mirror. “It was clearly a textbook episode of sensory overload. That poor man –”

“I’m sure he knows how to cope,” Edward reassured him, reaching around from behind Oswald to straighten the tie gently. “Don’t fret. If he doesn’t want your help, don’t force it. If he does want it, then he will come to you.” 

Oswald nodded dumbly, still lingering in the scent of Edward’s cologne and the faint brush of his knuckle against his throat. Ed’s words were true, what Oswald heard of them, but that didn’t make him worry for that James Gordon any less. 

His eyes had strayed to him more than he’d care to admit during his lecture, though Oswald rationalized that he was just surprised to see him in a shirt that didn’t have an Army decal on it. But as the lecture went on, the furrow in his brow just got deeper, and he spent more time glancing up at Oswald in askance, as if begging for him to repeat himself without actually asking. 

And Oswald had been tempted – he looked so forlorn, so lost – but he pushed forward anyway, figuring he would ask if he needed help. But he didn’t, and now all Oswald felt was guilt. Should he have said something else? Should he have stepped in, demanded that James stay in the classroom until he was calmer? 

Should he have just not said anything at all? 

Edward knelt carefully down to Oswald’s bad leg and unsnapped the leg brace, standing back up straight to grab Oswald’s cane from beside his bed while Oswald carefully rotated his ankle, hands rubbing at the places where the brace had stung his skin after being worn all day. He took the cane with a grateful “thank you,” that Edward shrugged away, walking back down the hallway to his own room to grab his coat, a dark green tweed.

Sometimes Edward could be so accidentally intimate that Oswald had to constantly remind himself that Edward didn’t realize what these little gestures meant to him, what those small reminders of their closeness sparked in him. Oswald was, as Edward constantly reminded him, a hopeless romantic, but Edward was largely uninterested in affection of any kind, though his own kind gestures were far more frequent. In that respect, they just didn’t mesh.

“Are you coming?” Edward’s voice carried down the hallway to his room, and Oswald jerked out of his reverie. “We’re going to be late.” 

***

Jim stared at his almost half-empty bourbon bottle, an impulse purchase on his way home from a drive-through liquor store, of all things. He had at least enough self-control to wait until he got home before he opened it and drank straight from the bottle. 

Attacks like those always left him feeling unmoored, lost, and nothing could really get his bearings back. Usually, it came down to sleeping it off, or powering through. Neither of those options was particularly appealing today, so he resorted to drinking. 

He tilted his head back to its original position, so he was staring at his ceiling. At least there was a little bit of a reprieve like this, he thought. He could see the ceiling starting to turn, a symptom of the bourbon, but at least – he insisted – he knew why it was spinning this time. 

Perhaps he should drop his psychology class, he thought ruefully. Wouldn’t that just make his life easier? He could just take his kinesiology class, his English class, and call it a day. He wouldn’t have to worry about taking notes, wouldn’t have to worry about spotting his professor, dressed in his rich looking suit, his lips always quirked like he knew what you were thinking –

Jim groaned, covering his eyes with his arm. He should not be bothering with thoughts like these. He needed to…he cast his mind about, trying to grasp something, anything else to think about. He needed to…drink some more. 

He tossed his arm away from his face, reaching for the bottle. He missed, his fingers groping for the elusive bottle. Finally, with a groan, he forced himself to sit up, the room lurching with his sudden movement. The bottle was on the other side of his torso.

He sighed, reaching for it and pulling the top off. He had managed one tiny sip when his ringing phone stopped him. The display flashed for a moment before it showed who was calling. 

Mom. 

“Mom,” he said in lieu of greeting. “I was going to call –”

“Jimmy, baby,” she interrupted him, and his body seemed to know something was wrong before she said it; he could feel the tension in his neck, the tightness in his joints. “Baby, I have to tell you something, okay? Can you sit down?” 

“I’m sitting, Mama, what’s going on?” he asked. 

She didn’t answer for a long time; all he could hear was sniffling and rustling, like she was trying to hide the fact that she was crying. Like she was trying to be strong for him. “Jimmy, it’s about your dad…” 

***

As usual, in agreeing to an outing with Edward, Oswald had set himself up for disappointment. He had hypothesized that they would arrive together, mingle a bit, have a few drinks, and conspire together in a dark corner, the shadows and the wine almost romantic. At least, that’s how he always wanted it to be.

The moment they walked through the door, however, Edward was making a beeline for his anatomy professor, shaking his hand heartily, taking the offered drink, and Oswald was left alone. He surveyed his surroundings, all suits and wine glasses, flashes of horn-rimmed glasses. Most of these events were opportunities for doctoral candidates to mingle with their professors over some alcohol. They could network here, could get a taste of what PhD life would be like when their suffering was over. 

As for teachers, they generally steered clear. They knew who the rest of the faculty was, and they didn’t much care to spend time with them outside of the necessary contact at faculty meetings and conferences. Newer professors, adjunct lecturers, they would swoop through events like this to maybe score brownie points with their department chairs and deans, show them that perhaps they were worth being upgraded to a full-time instructor. 

Oswald, being none of those things, found himself sitting in that would-be romantic corner alone, sipping his glass of wine and watching the goings-on, his gaze often straying to the sidewalk outside. Moments like these were both comforting and lonely, and Oswald reflected that he worked for six years to be in a room like this, with people who thought the way he did, and when he finally got here, he still wasn’t satisfied. 

It was irritating, not being able to revel in your accomplishments because one single thing didn’t work out the way you’d like. He’d been like that since he was young, since his mother taught him that diligence and intelligence was the only way to end up above his own school yard bullies. 

And here he was, above them, still unhappy. His mother, if she were alive, would be ashamed, he thought, watching a crowd of people pass by the window. He should visit her grave this weekend, if he had the opportunity. The crowd of people had passed, one of them left behind, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk like he was trying to see in the window. With a jolt, Oswald realized it was James Gordon, stubble more pronounced on his chin than earlier this morning, his face ruddy. 

Was he crying? 

Before he could overthink it, Oswald stood from his seat, grabbed his cane, and pushed his way through the crowd at the bar to get to the door. James was still standing in the same spot when he got to the sidewalk himself, and without the lights and the glass in the way, Oswald could see that he was staring at nothing in particular, a cell phone held loosely in his hand.

“James?” Oswald asked. 

James turned to him so sharply Oswald was worried that he was going to topple over. His eyes were bloodshot, the tear tracks so prominent on his face that it took Oswald a long time to realize that he was holding a bottle of bourbon in his other hand. 

“Great,” he muttered. “Of _course_.”

“Are you – what’s wrong?” Because clearly something was wrong, apocalyptically wrong, if someone as strong as James could look so floored.

James dragged the back of his hand over his cheekbone, wiping away the tears quickly, as if Oswald hadn’t already seen them. The movement was so unabashedly childlike that Oswald’s worry compounded. “Whu are you doin’ here?” James asked instead of answering the question. “Because this is definitely not a coinci - coincidence.” 

“There’s a faculty mixer going on in there,” Oswald tilted his head toward the window. “And…you’re drunkenly wandering around the campus. Of course you’re going to see faculty here.” His eyes fell to the bottle again, and he sighed. “Did you drive here?” 

“Walked,” James mumbled. He dropped his eyes to the sidewalk, momentarily ashamed, and the movement made his whole body sway dangerously. Oswald rushed to his side, catching him under the arm before he could fall forward. 

“Okay, there’s a bench right over there,” he grunted, trying to hold him up and use his cane at the same time. “Think you can make it?” 

James didn’t answer, but stumbled forward a step. “M’ dad’s dead,” he said, so quietly Oswald almost missed it. “’s dead.” 

With a heavy exhale, Oswald helped him onto the bench, gratefully taking the seat beside him. “I – I’m sorry, James.” 

“Jim,” he replied. “Ev’ryone calls me Jim.” 

“Jim, then,” Oswald answered reassuringly, his arm that had eased Jim onto the bench rubbing his back soothingly. 

Jim turned to him suddenly, as if he just realized he was there, alarm prominent in his eyes. Immediately, Oswald’s arm retreated. “Am I going to get in trouble?” he asked. 

“For being drunk?” Oswald asked. “Unless you vandalize property, you’re probably going to be okay.” 

“M’kay,” Jim mumbled, lifting his arm lazily and setting the bourbon bottle onto the bench too. “I can’ go to jail tonigh’, I have to go see my mom.” 

“Where is your mom, Jim?” Oswald asked. 

“Outskirts of town,” Jim replied. “But I can’ – I can’ go see her drunk. She’s – she’s so sad. She _needs_ me, and I’m –” Oswald watched a tear fill his eye and slide down his cheek. “And I’m just…fucking drunk.” 

An ache took hold in Oswald’s chest, spreading as Jim’s one tear led to another, and another. “No one plans for things like this to happen,” he confided, thinking momentarily of his mother. “No one is going to judge you for how you grieve.” 

Jim snorted disbelievingly, sniffing afterward. 

“Well, they shouldn’t,” Oswald amended, his hand rising of its own volition to thumb away a stray tear on Jim’s cheek. Jim’s eyes followed the movement, catching Oswald’s gaze as he pulled his hand away. “Do you need me to call you a cab?” he asked, his voice hushed, soft. 

Jim stared at him, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there. And considering how drunk he was, he very well could be wondering just that. “S-sure,” he stammered.

“I can do that,” Oswald said, mostly to reassure himself. He grabbed his cane, prepared to move away from Jim to make the call, but Jim’s voice pulled him back. 

“Will you sit with me until it comes?” he asked.

Oswald smiled sadly. “Of course I will.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim misses his first psychology class to attend a wake, and visits Oswald during office hours to see what he missed. Featuring a backstory reveal.

9:58 a.m. on Monday morning and Jim still wasn’t in his seat. Oswald felt his eyes lift, unseeing, and go to his most recent seat, beside Barbara Kean. It was still empty, her purse occupying the space instead, and with a sigh of disappointment, Oswald made a note on his little legal pad, usually used only for lecture notes, to “email Jim Gordon after class.” 

It was class related, he argued traitorously with himself. He had to make sure Jim didn’t fall behind while he was gone grieving his father. He tapped the note with the nib of his pen, considering scratching it out. He had only missed one day, after all, and class hadn’t even started. Perhaps he wouldn’t miss it at all. Would Jim see it as an invasion of his privacy, his teacher emailing him about a personal matter that he should not have been privy to?

Or would he appreciate having someone to talk to, knowing he wouldn’t have to relive the tale with someone who already knew it? 

With a sigh, Oswald tapped the note again and left it, standing up. 

“Good morning, class,” he began. “Happy Monday.” 

It wasn’t truly a happy Monday; he spent the weekend in secretive silence, unable to tell Edward about his encounter with Jim at the mixer. What could he possibly say without betraying the man’s trust? Surely Jim didn’t want some random roommate of Oswald’s to know about his personal business, so it was prudent that Oswald not share it.

Instead he got up Saturday morning and went to his mother’s grave, stopping only by her favorite florist to get a bouquet of lilies. In the time between his visits, Gertrud’s grave had only sprouted a couple of little weeds near the headstone, and they were quickly yanked out and replaced by the paper-wrapped bouquet.

He talked to her, the morning melting into afternoon, about his life, simple details she would have loved to hear, glossing over his own infatuation with Edward and his own fascination with Jim. He never had the time to tell his mother about his sexuality, and even in death, he shied away from the topic. Certainly, it was not a point of conversation that ever went the way he wanted it to. 

“I miss you,” he said instead. “Every time someone loses a parent, I feel your loss all over again.” He paused, thinking back to Jim’s face, shocked and worn in the twilight. “I thought, after a few years, that it wouldn’t hurt anymore, but it does.” He reached out his hand to brush away some errant dust on the top of the marble headstone. “I hope you’re watching over me, Mother, and I hope I’ve made you proud.”

Before he left, he pulled one of the lilies out of the bouquet and kept it with him. It sat in his office now, in a small green vase. 

Class was a short affair; he gave the students time to write a short in-class assignment, where they outlined their own background in psychology, if any, what they wanted to learn from the class, and if they thought psychology would be helpful in their field of study. 

It was busy work, but he enjoyed reading those particular assignments. More often than not, he was greeted with brusque, stilted statements from students who didn’t care to learn anything from the class, juxtaposed with gushing, ass-kissing paragraphs from brown-nosing students who wrote what they thought he wanted to hear. 

They were good for a laugh, at least. 

He sat in the classroom as the students filtered out, one by one sliding their sheets of paper over the table to him, and glanced over at his notebook one more time. Definitively, he scratched out his note.

***

Funerals were bad; wakes were worse. Jim had been to one other funeral in his life, for his grandmother, and he was young enough that the wake had been a sea of relatives he hadn’t seen before, and after half an hour, he had all but forgotten why he was there, and his mother even bought him ice cream from McDonald’s on the way home for the ordeal. 

This time was different. 

Of the three Gordon sons, Jim was the oldest, and was the last of the three to arrive after news of his father’s death broke. As the eldest son, he was responsible for receiving the condolences second, after his mother, and that was not enough time for him to figure out how to respond. 

Was he supposed to say thank you? Was he supposed to say anything at all? 

Before long, his main objective was to be near his mother; most mourners managed to keep their tears silent, sharing only sniffles with the people nearest them. His mother, on the other hand, was quickly overcome with so much grief that all Jim could do was hold her up as she cried, and accept condolences on her behalf. 

Funerals were wretched, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. But it was different, feeling the pressure of attention while he tried so desperately to shield his mother from it. The wake was even worse; for distant relatives, the wake is an opportunity to eat, drink, and share memories. 

But even though Jim knew that, he could not reconcile with himself what he already knew. People were telling stories – _laughing_ – how could they when his father was dead and in the ground? How could they laugh when his mother was sobbing into his father’s pillow upstairs in their bedroom while his younger brother tried to track down some Valium? 

It was perverse, it was rude. 

He spent most of that time sitting in his father’s old armchair, relishing in his smell, in the unfamiliar view of the rest of the living room. He stared at a place beyond what anyone else could see, and he floated in the white noise of the conversation, contributing nothing, saying nothing. 

***

He spent Monday in his apartment, trying to decide if he should go to class or not. He promised his mother that this loss would not keep him from accomplishing what his father always wanted, which was for his son to be educated, happy, and financially stable. So he let her tearfully push him out the front door, insisting she was fine, and drove back to his place in the early light of Monday morning. 

He didn’t go to class that day, and under the excuse of listening to his mother, he spent the day staring at his open textbook, hoping to absorb some of the information, but unable to actively try to learn.

Tuesday arrived uneventfully – he wasn’t sure if he slept too much – but it was dark and then the sun was back, so he had no choice but to actually try to continue his life. 

“One day,” his brother Thomas hissed at him when they hugged goodbye. “You get one day to dwell, and then you get back to living. Promise me.” 

With an insurmountable effort, he pulled himself off the couch and took a shower, setting an alarm for ten minutes so he was sure he wouldn’t stare at the tile wall for an hour before he realized he never even shampooed, and made himself a cup of coffee. 

He would make his father proud, he promised himself. He would make his mother proud. 

***

Tuesdays were long and boring; Oswald taught only one class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and spent the rest of the day in his office, fulfilling his office hour obligations. Unfortunately, because he taught specifically introductory classes, students hardly, if ever, came to his office hours for help. Mostly, they came to turn in their assignments late or beg for a passing grade even though they never came to class or turned anything in.

Instead, he would read or grade papers during his office hours, but early on in the semester, before he had anything to grade, he was often at a loss. 

Perhaps he would go get a coffee – 

“Mr. Cobblepot?” 

He jumped, his book slapping closed with a resounding thump. Surely he was imagining things…but when he looked toward his office door, there was Jim Gordon, in a black v-neck that was irritatingly fitted, with bags under his eyes. 

“Jim,” he breathed, clearing his throat definitely. “I didn’t – I didn’t know you were back. Please, sit.” 

Jim obliged, dropping himself into the chair heavily. “Sorry I wasn’t in class on Monday,” he said, his voice hoarse. Oswald’s chest ached thinking about how he had grieved in the last few days to make his voice sound like that. “It was a…weird couple of days.”

Oswald didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. 

“I actually just came to see what I missed on Monday,” Jim continued. “I don’t want to fall behind –”

Oswald waved him off. “It’s okay –”

“It’s not –”

“It really is,” Oswald insisted. “Really. All you missed was an in-class writing assignment, but because your absence is excused, so is the assignment.” 

“Oh,” Jim deflated, his shoulders slumping. 

Oswald raised his eyebrows at the movement. “Hoping for work?” he asked. “That’s a unique reaction.” 

Jim shrugged. “I figured that I missed a lecture, so I might be completely lost when I get back.” 

Oswald furrowed his brow, trying to decide what to say. A decent teacher would deflect, reassure the student they were going to be fine, and subtly give them the clue to leave. A good teacher would tell the student that they didn’t need to worry, or something of that sort. So which was he? 

“Actually,” he said, a surprise to everyone, including himself, “I wanted to ask you…” Jim blinked, the wrinkle in his brow relaxing, and Oswald plowed forward, “you seemed to be having trouble last class, with note taking.” 

Immediately, Jim dropped his gaze to his own lap, where he clasped his hands together. Even from the other side of the desk, Oswald could see the tension in his hands, the veins of his knuckles more pronounced. 

“You said this was your first semester,” Oswald continued, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that told him he was digging a deep hole he could never crawl out of. “A lot of students find that study habits they learned in high school don’t always apply when they get to college. It takes time to find which style of studying works best for you.” 

Jim looked up from his hands, finding Oswald’s gaze immediately and holding it. “Really?” he asked. “Everyone seems like they know what they’re doing.” 

“Jim,” Oswald said, his hand reaching across the desk, coming to rest on top of a stack of papers, its true purpose unknown, “no one knows what they’re doing in college.” 

Jim chuckled, the smile brightening his face significantly, and Oswald felt the smile leak into him. 

“Some students take notes, others record the lectures and take notes after, some take notes on the reading and then supplement it with notes from the lectures,” Oswald listed. “It just depends on what works for you.” 

Jim nodded solemnly. “Do you mind if I ask you…kind of an insensitive question?” he asked tentatively. 

Oswald tensed. Here it comes, he thought grimly. 

“Shoot,” he said dryly. 

Jim shifted in his seat, the tone not completely lost on him. “I saw that you wear a leg brace in class, but you were using a cane the last time I saw you,” he said. “Is there a reason you use one in class and another outside of it?” 

No question about the injury itself? Oswald felt his face flush, but he rationalized it as just surprise, not pleasure. “Students like to ask uncomfortable questions about the cane when they see me with it in class,” he said. “So I got used to not bringing it.” 

Jim nodded. “Kids are cruel,” he acknowledged. 

“They are,” Oswald said softly. “Do you want to know how it happened?” he asked. 

_Why_ was he offering this information, he thought wildly. He was just worried that he was going to ask about it, and here he was, willingly giving it to him? Jim, across from him, widened his eyes a little and nodded. 

“If you’re cool with sharing,” he shrugged.

Oswald rose from his seat, crossed in front of the desk and leaned over Jim to shut the office door, lowering himself carefully into the other seat that occupied the front of his desk. Jim watched his every movement closely, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. 

“I grew up in Gotham,” Oswald began, drinking in Jim’s apt expression hungrily. “But my family was very poor. My father died before I was born, and my mother struggled to find work. Once I realized I wanted to go to college, I knew I was going to have to be the one who paid for it. So I asked around…” he hesitated, and in the silence, Jim leaned forward in his seat. “It wasn’t hard to find work in my old neighborhood, you see, but most of it was illegal.” 

Jim raised his eyebrows, his mouth just barely dropping open. Oswald spared it a glance before he pushed forward. 

“I got a job running drugs for a woman named Fish,” he said. “She was like…another mother to me. She was intimidating, eloquent, stunning. She was dangerous. I _loved_ danger,” he breathed softly, allowing the story to take him away. “I loved to get as close to danger as I could while still being able to jump away at the last second.” 

Jim chuckled, just once, a quiet sound that Oswald noted with a quirk of his lips. “Anyway, I took it upon myself and a few other guys to roll over one of the rival gang’s deliveries, sell it myself instead, get a bigger cut and all that. Well, Fish found out, and technically, I was breaking the rules, causing trouble.” Oswald dropped his hand on top of his knee. “She made sure I would never do it again.” 

“ _Fish_ did that to you?” Jim asked, incredulous. 

Oswald nodded. “That is the infamous story that very few people know.” 

Jim smiled. “I feel special.”

Uh oh, Oswald thought. That’s…probably going to be a problem. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Jim said. “Since you shared, I’ll give you a story too. That way, we’re even.” 

Oswald tilted his head. “You have my attention.” 

“Okay,” Jim’s cheeks flushed, just lightly enough that Oswald was pretty sure he made it up. “Well, you know I was in the army, right? I was stationed in Afghanistan twice. My first tour, I was patrolling this little village, out in the middle of nowhere. It was…a ghost town. Dust everywhere, abandoned cars and knocked over bicycles. Super bizarre.” 

Oswald leaned his chin on his hand, watching Jim’s hands while he talked. The previously tense fists he held were now relaxed, one hand tapping a mindless rhythm on his knee. 

“My commander tells me, over the radio, that we need to go clear this abandoned hospital,” he continues. “So we go, a few of us, and this hospital is huge, and it looks empty. We clear one floor, and then another, and then another. And then I hear a sound in one of the rooms, so I motion for one of the guys to follow me. And this kid – I swear he could have only been about seven years old – jumps out of the room and shoots me, right in the gut.” 

“He shot you?” Oswald exclaimed sharply. 

“Of course he shot me,” Jim answered. “He was hiding his family in that room, and we were coming in, pointing our guns at things. I don’t blame him for doing it.” 

“What did it feel like?” Oswald asked, breathless. “The gunshot.” 

“Like burning,” Jim said. “Sometimes, late at night, it’s like I can feel it all over again. The burning, the wet blood, the sand in my mouth.” 

“You relive it?” Oswald asked, trying hard not to sound clinical. 

“Sometimes,” Jim shrugged. “Want to see it?” 

“The scar?” Oswald blurted. Jim nodded, and, without waiting for him to answer, hiked up his shirt about six inches, revealing a puckered pink scar, glossy against his skin. “Holy shit.” 

Jim laughed, the movement rippling the scar. “Touch it,” he said. “It feels super weird.” 

“I shouldn’t –” He definitely shouldn’t. They shouldn’t even be having this conversation, shouldn’t be lifting shirts in his office with the door closed. But Jim leaned forward, catching one of Oswald’s hands between his own and gently pressed it against the scar, grinning when Oswald cringed. 

“Weird, right?” he asked, still holding Oswald’s hand, pressing his fingers into the skin of his abdomen. 

“It’s…smooth,” Oswald remarked, and Jim’s hand was gone, and it was just him, pressing his index and middle finger against the skin, his thumb braced against the unmarked, unscarred skin. “Does it hurt when I touch it?” 

Jim shrugged. “I can’t really feel it at all. Just your thumb.” 

Instantly, Oswald yanked his hand back, leaning farther back into his chair. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “I suppose…I suppose that should do it, then,” he stammered. “I will see you in class on Wednesday?” 

Jim stood, extending his hand for Oswald to shake. “Thank you for your time, and the advice,” he said. “I really appreciate it.” It was miraculous and relieving to know he could easily slide back into his role when Oswald went back to his.

Oswald took his hand, the shake so minimal it’s like they didn’t shake at all. “Any time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's subconscious starts showing him what he needs to know, Oswald has to come to terms with an unfortunate truth. The lines blur even more.

In the falling light of dusk, gunshots pierced through the haze; Jim fell immediately behind the fossil of an old car and pressed his back to the rusted metal, praying it would hold as a momentary shield. He couldn’t say what he was running from, or toward, but it was necessary – it was a matter of survival. The light was a dark, rusted red, the source of which he couldn’t find, even when he squinted through the mist, trying to get his bearings. He could smell metallic blood and burning gunpowder.

One of his men, jogging forward into view through the fog, took two to the gut and fell to the sand, his mouth open in a silent scream that never reached Jim’s ears. Panic surged through him, and he pushed himself forward on his belly to grab the man and pull him behind the car with him. 

Blood was flowing out of his mouth with every heartbeat, every surge a new cough, more agony. The man grasped at Jim’s hands, pressing them to his stomach with as much force as he could muster, but the blood would not cease. Jim’s hands, over the wounds, were shaking so badly it looked like even more blood was leaking through, and suddenly, there were more explosions, more gunshots, and one of his men was landing beside him, reaching for his hands, helping him apply pressure. 

“Thank you,” he tried to shout over the gun’s report, knowing that there was no way the other man could hear him, but the man looked up, and caught Jim’s gaze, and he was looking into familiar blue-grey eyes, dark hair falling into them. 

“Cobblepot,” he read on the man’s shirt, and one of his hands landed on Jim’s cheek, barely brushing over the cheekbone. 

“Never leave your unit behind,” he said, his voice loud and clear over the cacophony. 

“What?” he asked, even though he heard him. This didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t be here, they couldn’t be here. Everything was hazy, like it was going translucent, and he heard the words again, soft and dreamy. 

“Never leave your unit behind.”

Jim jolted awake with a gasp, his eyes flying open and searching the room accusingly for any trace of his dream. Instead, he was greeted by the streetlight outside shining through the broken blinds on his bedroom window, the sound of the shower dripping gently in the quiet, and nothing out of the ordinary.

It was just a dream, he thought, settling back down in the sheets. But even so, he could still feel the ghostly fingers on his cheek, the piercing eyes, seeing and knowing all, even his weaknesses. He could still hear his voice. 

He drifted back to sleep on that voice, wondering and hoping to see him again.

***

“Edward,” Oswald prompted, his eyes watching his roommate’s silhouette in the kitchen. “Would you like to go to dinner?” 

Immediately, he wanted to kick himself. He meant to phrase that differently, to put it in such a way that his intentions could not be misunderstood. He had intended to ask Edward on a date, no quibbles or silly word play about it, but the words were already out of his mouth, and if he amended them, embarrassment would probably swallow him whole. 

“Sure,” Edward shrugged. “We haven’t gotten dinner together in a while.” 

The idea of it being a date didn’t occur to him at all – Oswald wanted to correct him; the words were on the tip of his tongue, but Edward, his cup of tea made, crossed right in front of him, went down the hallway, and into his room. Oswald was left with his stack of almost graded papers, his pen still held over the place a comma was supposed to be. 

Two short papers later, Edward stepped into the living room again, dressed in tartan slacks, a beige shirt, and green suspenders. Oswald took in his silhouette silently, far too aware of his own attraction to say anything out loud, lest he ruin everything before it began. 

“Are you ready?” Edward asked plainly, and Oswald furrowed his brow suspiciously. 

“You want to go _now_?” he replied, surprised. Edward shrugged, moving toward the closet near the front door to grab his jacket. “I thought we could…you know…” he hesitated, trying to find the right way to phrase it without being terribly obvious, “go on Friday or something.” 

“Why would we do that?” Edward asked. “We haven’t had dinner today.” 

“You’re right,” Oswald muttered. “You’re right.” 

How was he supposed to explain to Edward that Friday night held an inherent date connotation that a Thursday evening did not? If he did that, he’d have to explain to Edward why he wanted to go on Friday in the first place, which would bring up a conversation he was suddenly very aware he wasn’t ready to have. Still, nerves knotted in his belly as he stood, tugging his vest down as he did so. 

“I – I should get changed.” 

“Come now, Oswald,” Edward chastised him gently. “It’s not like this is a date or anything.” 

***

By the time their food arrived, Oswald still hadn’t recovered. He was silent on their short drive to the restaurant; he spoke only to the waiter, and sulked in his seat while they waited for their food. Mostly, he didn’t want to speak; he could still feel the pain of the rejection in his chest, aching like a physical wound, but at the same time, let Edward sit in the same silence, he thought bitterly. Let Edward feel the tension, let him understand that his words hurt Oswald’s feelings. 

“Oswald, is something the matter?” he asked finally, as Oswald poked his salad. “You haven’t said a word since we left the apartment. 

“Would it be such a terrible ordeal to go on a date with me?” he blurted, just barely above a whisper. 

Edward furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.” 

“Of _course_ you don’t,” Oswald muttered, stabbing a piece of lettuce particularly violently. 

“If I don’t understand, why don’t you explain it to me?” 

Oswald dropped his fork onto the plate, the loud clatter rattling him even more. “There’s nothing to explain,” he insisted. “If you haven’t gotten it yet, then you never will.” 

Edward set his fork down gently on the side of the plate. “That seems like a cheap ploy to make me feel guilty for not understanding something you assumed I did.” 

“I don’t need you to analyze my psychological patterns,” Oswald hissed. “I’m the one with the psychology degree.” 

“Which generally makes you incapable of seeing your own issues clearly,” Edward replied calmly. “So why don’t you speak plainly so I can try to remedy whatever it is that is bothering you.” 

Dammit, his logic was even more infuriating. Oswald pushed his plate away, crossing his arms over his chest. Edward watched him do it, his expression still plainly curious. Now that the silence had started, it was hard to open it back up again – no amount of denial could convince Oswald that this conversation would end well. This would just be yet another conversation where Oswald would bare his feelings to another man who didn’t understand, who didn’t reciprocate, and who inevitably hurt him. 

He was so tired of being hurt. 

“Oswald,” Edward prompted. 

“I asked you out to dinner,” Oswald said sharply. “Why would I do that?” 

“Because we’re _friends_ –”

“Because I wanted to take you out on a date,” he exclaimed, dropping his hands heavily onto the table. “But that possibility never even crossed your mind, did it?” 

Edward considered his statement, way more calm than he had right to be. “No, it didn’t,” he said truthfully, and Oswald winced. 

“Of course not,” he agreed bitterly. 

“It’s not an insult,” Edward protested gently. “I just –”

“It is an insult,” Oswald insisted. 

“Oswald, I can’t go on a date with you because I have a girlfriend,” Edward blurted hurriedly.

Oswald blinked, trying to process the information, but still, it wouldn’t stick. Edward, the man who hardly spoke to anyone, managed to get a girlfriend and keep her identity a secret? He could barely breathe past the ache in his chest; he could feel his eyes start to mist up. He could not be here right now. 

“I have to go,” he said, rising from his seat so quickly his chair screeched loudly. He could feel the volume in the restaurant drop considerably in response. He clenched his jaw against the embarrassment, against the anger, against the pain, and left. 

***

“Good morning, class, 

We will not meet in the classroom today – please read chapter two for class on Monday. We will discuss the concepts mentioned in that chapter during lecture. Do not forget your first test is in less than two weeks. 

Regards,   
Mr. Cobblepot.”

Jim reread the email twice, his grip on his backpack loosening until it fell to the ground. He had actually been looking forward to class; he had gone to the store and gotten a battery powered tape recorder he could use to record lectures and was anxious to use it and see if it helped. Disappointment spread through his limbs, and he dwelled only momentarily on the thought that he’d never been distressed by missing class. 

Before he could overthink it, he clicked “reply.” 

“Mr. Cobblepot,

I was sorry to hear that class was cancelled today. Are you alright? Do you need anything? 

-J”

Immediately after he clicked “send,” he wished he could take it back. They talked in his office once, and he saw him while he was drunk; it’s not like they were really friends. Two conversations did not a friendship make. What kind of ass-kissy email was that? “Do you need anything?” What was he _thinking_? Hell, even responding to the email at all made him want to cringe now that it was sent. He tapped on the track pad of his laptop, as if magically the email would come back to him unread. 

Nothing happened. 

What would happen when Mr. Cobblepot read that email? God, he would think he was some desperate student, trying to brown nose the teacher for extra credit or something stupid. He was going to go to class on Monday and Mr. Cobblepot was going to give him that same pitying look he always got from authority figures when Jim went out of his way to impress them. 

He hated himself. He really felt like he and Mr. Cobblepot could have been friends if they weren’t teacher and student. They had plenty in common, and they certainly could hold a conversation without it being awkward. 

With a groan, Jim closed the laptop, and decided to do what every self-respecting college student would do now that his class was cancelled – he took a nap.

***

Finally, his bed was warm – it had been so long since Jim had another person in his bed. He sighed, slipping his arm around the person’s middle, pulling them closer, burying his face in the nape of their neck. He inhaled, savoring their scent. Soft, a little spicy, and comforting. He pressed a kiss to the spot, as if thanking it, and let his lips leave little traces around the initial spot, on their neck, their shoulder blades. 

The bed dipped as they turned to face him, and before Jim could make out their face, their lips were pressed together, hot and slick, hands pressed to his chest, tracing down his stomach, just barely grazing his scar, moving down to his waistband. His tongue probed their mouth, sliding against each other, the friction enticing and intoxicating. 

He pulled his mouth away, greedily drinking in the cold air as a warm hand cupped him over his boxers. Jim moaned, allowing the sensation to push him fully onto his back, his eyes fluttering closed. It had been so long, and it felt so good. 

Finally his idleness wasn’t enough, and he reached for them, pulling himself on top to drop firm kisses on their neck, riding the high of their moans, their needy hands pulling at his waist, sliding up his back. 

A distant ringing caught his attention, and the last thing he remembered before he woke up was a pair of striking blue-grey eyes and dark hair. 

***

Friday afternoon and Oswald still hadn’t found a way to remedy his pride; he cancelled all of his classes but couldn’t stomach being in the apartment all day, not with Edward going in and out for his labs and recitation. Instead, he packed a lunch, grabbed his grading, and holed up in his office, ready and prepared to brood. 

The first hour was spent staring into space, dwelling on the night before. Edward paid the bill for dinner, met him at the car, and they drove home in silence, both unwilling to open up the conversational floor for the other. Oswald desperately wanted to know who Edward’s girlfriend was, when they’d met, how long they’d been dating, but he knew, with the certainty that he knew the answer to his own tests, that he was only asking those questions to hurt himself. 

Curiosity did indeed kill the cat, and he was determined not to be the cat who died of heartbreak. 

The next couple of hours flowed faster, though Oswald was sure that was fate bringing him closer to the end of the work day and closer to another night in an apartment with Edward, not speaking, not acknowledging, not nothing. 

It was at the beginning of hour four that someone knocked on his door. 

Hesitantly, he called out, “Come in.” 

Jim poked his head in the door, eyes wide and nervous. Oswald met his gaze with a half-smile, tilting his head to let him know it was okay to come in. He obliged, shutting the door behind him, his hand staying on the door knob, as if to indicate his willingness to open the door should Oswald tell him. 

He didn’t. 

***

This was the first time Jim had seen Mr. Cobblepot outside of a full suit; instead he was wearing a black sweater and black pinstripe slacks. He looked both comfortable and forlorn, and for some reason, Jim’s nerves melted away into concern. 

But he was looking at Jim like he was waiting for him to begin the conversation, and hadn’t Jim come here? He cleared his throat and offered a weak, “I saw your office light on,” as an excuse. 

“You often come into this building when your class is cancelled?” Mr. Cobblepot asked, glancing at the clock on the wall, “Three hours after your class?” 

Jim flushed all the way to his ears, the heat of the blush making his embarrassment worse. “You cancelled class,” he offered. “I emailed you.” 

Mr. Cobblepot, to his credit, did not look the least bit phased by Jim calling him out on not responding to the email. “It was a rough evening last night, so I figured I would be less than focused in class.” 

“Are you alright?” Jim asked, sliding into the same seat he’d been in just a few days ago. 

“What?” Mr. Cobblepot asked. “Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine,” he assured him, turning in his chair to check the monitor of his computer. The movement sent a wave of his cologne to Jim, and suddenly, he was back in his bed, his lips on the man’s neck, his hands around his thighs, listening to him breathe in his ear, the same cologne overwhelming his senses. 

_Crap._

“Are – are you sure?” Jim asked, trying to keep the conversation going in spite of his revelation. Had he dreamed about his teacher? He hadn’t seen much of the person’s face, just felt their skin, tasted them, but all of that was a distant detail he couldn’t quite quantify now that he wasn’t dreaming. But he remembered how he felt when he woke up, an ache in his gut, deep and wanting. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Mr. Cobblepot said, his eyes distant. “I just –” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and Jim realized forcefully that Mr. Cobblepot had no styling product in his hair today; the dark locks were longer than he originally anticipated, framing his face softly and falling into his eyes. “Do you ever feel like you’re just some…cosmic joke?” 

Jim nodded. “Sometimes.” 

Mr. Cobblepot gave him an exasperated look, disbelief written all over his face. “I mean, look at me. I can be okay with not being good-looking, I’d like to think my intelligence makes up for whatever I lack…” he gestured to himself half-heartedly, “there, but apparently I can’t even make an emotional or intellectual connection with someone.” 

Jim frowned, the desire to interrupt him and contradict what he thought about himself almost overwhelming. How could he think those things about himself? It didn’t make any sense. 

“It’s even harder trying to figure out which connections to pursue romantically as a gay man, because you can’t assume that another man might be attracted to you, but if you ask, somehow it’s an insult. So you invest time in a man who was never going to like you, only to be disappointed later because you couldn’t figure out how to ask if they were gay too.” 

Mr. Cobblepot paused in his tirade, his wide eyes finding Jim in the silence that followed. Jim rushed to fill the awkward silence. 

“When I was in the seventh grade, I played Spin the Bottle at a friend’s house with a bunch of guys and girls. When I spun the bottle and the bottle landed on a boy, I got in trouble for leaning in to kiss him because I was just supposed to _know_ that you weren’t supposed to kiss a boy if you were a boy. And then a few weeks later I realized I was bisexual. So I kind of know what you mean.” 

Mr. Cobblepot stared at him curiously, his mouth just barely open. Jim let the silence hang, unsure of what to say next. He didn’t want to make Mr. Cobblepot’s issues his own, lest he seem self-centered. But he also didn’t want to say something too flattering, just in case he came across as a kiss-ass. Instead, he stayed silent, waiting for Mr. Cobblepot to break the quiet. 

Finally, Mr. Cobblepot sighed. “I tried to ask out my roommate on a date in public and he responded by telling me he apparently has a girlfriend I didn’t know about.” 

Well, that is certainly a way to shut someone down, Jim thought. Still, he was irritated by the notion, though where the irritation was coming from, he couldn’t quiet place. To quell it, he leaned back and crossed his arms. 

“That sounds like a drinking situation,” he answered knowingly. Mr. Cobblepot exhaled a shaky laugh in response. 

“I’m probably not in the right frame of mind to drink in public,” he said.

Jim shrugged. “I have an apartment with a couple of bottles if you need a place to drink your sorrows away.” Mr. Cobblepot’s eyes met his instantly, slightly wider than usual. “If you’re okay with that, of course.” 

“We shouldn’t,” he replied quietly. “It’s unprofessional.” 

“You’re right,” Jim said instantly, shame overwhelming him. “It is completely unprofessional, forget I even –”

“Promise you won’t tell.” 

Jim smiled, grabbing his bag. “I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lines just keep blurring.

Jim’s apartment complex was across town, and the drive there gave Oswald plenty of time to second-guess his rash decision to take him up on his offer of a drink in his apartment. His car was definitely old, but the insides were clean and freshly vacuumed. His radio was tuned to the local rock station, but the volume wasn’t incredibly loud. Oswald felt the silence as Jim drove, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel absently. Perhaps he was following the beat of the music, or maybe he was just as nervous as Oswald was. 

“Do you live around here?” Jim finally asked. 

“Not too far from here, actually,” Oswald replied. “There’s a tradition here, or at least maybe just a coincidence, that newer students get those decrepit old apartments close to campus, juniors and seniors end up out here where you are, and professors and graduate students end up at the complex I’m in. Unless they’re lucky enough to get a townhouse or something.” 

“I guess I just got lucky,” Jim answered as they turned into the parking lot. “I checked out those crappy apartments when I first got here, but they were filled up already. I…” he hesitated, turning the car off, “I might have registered late.” 

Oswald turned halfway to him, as much as he could in the confines of the car. “You don’t strike me as a procrastinator.” 

Jim smiled like he tricked him, and Oswald was surprised at how mischievous his eyes could get when he was actually amused. “I wish you could have met my father,” he said wistfully. “He would have set you straight immediately.” 

Oswald didn’t answer right away; he was too busy surveying Jim’s face. The nostalgia in his tone quickly infected the rest of his face, and before long, the mischief in his eyes faded into melancholy. To hide it, he turned away and pushed the door open, prompting Oswald to do the same. 

And immediately, the awkward vibe dissolved into almost unbearable, and Oswald had ruined yet another conversation. 

“I’m – I’m sorry,” Oswald stammered, catching Jim’s averted gaze over the top of his car. “I didn’t mean –”

“No, no, it’s not you,” Jim reassured him immediately. “I’m the one who mentioned him.” 

“Still,” Oswald replied quietly. “I – I shouldn’t – maybe this was a bad idea.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Jim insisted. “He just…comes up at the weirdest moments. I – I’m not – not messed up or anything like that.” 

“You would have every right to be,” Oswald pointed out. “I just – burdening you with this…unimportant shit –”

“Please, please burden me with your unimportant shit,” Jim said, a laugh at the edge of his voice. “I can’t tell you how much I’d love to worry about someone else’s problems.” At Oswald’s hesitating look, he gave Oswald a dry quirk of his lips. “But if you want, I can take you back to your office. We never have to speak of this again.” 

Oswald considered the offer, knowing that he could easily step back over the line of professionalism if he wanted, but all the same, turning back now wasn’t truly an option, not when Jim was looking at him like that, his eyes nervous but his arms crossed like he was confident. 

And besides, didn’t he want to know more about Jim? 

And didn’t he want to complain about Ed to someone? 

“Which floor do you live on?” he asked. 

Jim grinned, offering Oswald his arm to help him over the curb. “I’m on the first.”

***

Their first drink came and went in a silence that existed somewhere between awkward and comfortable, and it wasn’t until Jim refilled his glass that he broached the subject. He set the bottle of rum between his thighs and leaned back in the arm chair he’d chosen specifically so the guest in his home wouldn’t feel claustrophobic, and regarded him curiously. 

“Tell me about your…friend,” he said, the demand gentle, the hesitation before the word friend suspicious. 

Oswald (wasn’t he just Oswald now that he was sitting in Jim’s apartment?) breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and took a sip of his drink to hide it. “We’ve been friends for over a year, and I…” he ran a hand through his hair, still loose and falling into his eyes and Jim watched it fall and settle, a familiar ache in his stomach at the sight of it. “I finally decided I was going to ask him on a date, and he immediately thought it was just…two friends going to dinner.” 

“Did you say it was a date?” Jim asked, his hands resting on the neck of the rum bottle between his thighs. 

Oswald hesitated. “Well, no, but –”

“How was he supposed to know, then?” Jim asked with a lighthearted laugh. “Guys are stupid, most of the time, you have to spell it out for us.” 

It sounded, now that the words were out there, like Jim was encouraging Oswald to ask out this friend a second time with more straightforward language, and immediately, Jim wanted to take it back. 

“He has a girlfriend,” Oswald replied, as if that settled things. “He’s…he’s probably not…you know.” 

“Gay?” Jim asked, and when Oswald flinched at the word, he paused. “Bi?”

Oswald waved his hand as if to indicate both, and Jim frowned, leaning forward to pull the top off the bottle of rum and add more to both glasses. Oswald watched him do it, his eyes half-lidded through his dark hair, his eyes far too intelligent for Jim’s liking.

“I just don’t think I can face him,” Oswald finally muttered, taking the glass and staring at it pensively. “I made an ass of myself.” 

Jim, with a nonchalance he never had with his own interactions, shrugged. “So apologize for being an ass. You don’t necessarily have to make that an apology for how you feel, just how you expressed it. Or reacted, whichever.” 

“Has anyone ever told you, James Gordon, that you are a very smart man?” Oswald asked, moving his glass as if to toast to Jim’s intelligence, the movement just sloppy enough that Jim knew he wasn’t going to refill his glass anymore. 

“You know what,” Jim said blandly, “I don’t think anyone ever has.” 

***

Oswald, his brain slightly fuzzy, squinted at him. “No one?” 

Jim shrugged. Anger washed over Oswald, but abstractly, in a way that made him acutely aware that he cared far too much about one throwaway comment, but he couldn’t make himself forget it. 

“Someone should have,” he said forcefully. “Because you are.” When Jim shrugged again, he shook his head. “Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“You’re downplaying your own worth because no one ever explicitly said you had any,” Oswald said firmly. “Just because no one outwardly said that you were smart doesn’t make you stupid.” 

Jim chuckled mirthlessly. “It kind of does. Don’t you think if I were smart, that someone would’ve said something by now?” 

“Well, I’m saying it,” Oswald said. “And I’m going to say it every day until you believe it.” 

Jim’s gaze caught his own and there was something shining there, maybe hope, maybe amusement, but as soon as he registered it, Jim cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. “Look, I don’t want you to think that I am fishing for –”

Oswald chuckled. “James, I think if you were fishing for some sort of compliment, you’d be a little more charming about it.” 

Jim popped the top on the rum and took a swig directly from the bottle. “What’s this? You don’t think self-deprecation is charming?” 

Oswald emptied his glass, raising it after, empty, and inclined his head at Jim. “I think you can make any sort of behavior charming,” he said. 

Jim smirked at him, his tongue sliding up over his teeth for just a moment, long enough for Oswald to fixate on it. “Oh, you do, do you?” he asked impishly. 

Yes, yes he did, but suddenly everything was a little too real, the drink a little too strong, the night a little too late. With a rushed movement, Oswald got to his feet, lurching forward when the room dipped. Jim was immediately at his side, one hand on Oswald’s bicep and the other on his waist, carefully righting him as best he could. His hand on Oswald’s arm was warm and just firm enough to remind Oswald that he was here, he was alive, and now he could feel Jim’s breath on his neck, his gaze heavy. 

“I should go,” he said, his voice hushed. Jim exhaled a laugh, his breath smelling of rum and a little like bubble gum. 

“I don’t think either of us are in any position to drive,” he pointed out, his voice just as quiet. Suddenly they were conspirators, sharing a secret, or lovers at an intimate dinner. Jim was right. “Why don’t you just stay here tonight?” 

“I couldn’t –”

“You can, and you will. There’s a perfectly comfortable couch right there,” Jim jutted his chin at the couch Oswald had just risen from. “Because I have a feeling you’re the kind of guy who will refuse to take my bed, even if I offer.” 

“You’re right,” Oswald agreed. He was still surprised that the sky outside was dark, that their talk had gone on this long, that they hadn’t fallen into awkward silence in hours. Their talk had started with Edward, but it swiftly moved through to their families, their education, their favorite movies (Jim loved Die Hard for some unfathomable reason), and on and on until the drink made them too content to follow the thread.

“I’ll get you some pajamas,” Jim released him, and Oswald was suddenly bereft, standing in the middle of the living room by himself. He cast his eyes around the slightly yellow walls, at the thumb-tacked posters, the gaming console beside a tangle of cords, the two empty glasses and almost empty rum bottle.

If he didn’t know better, he would say this apartment existed far away from Gotham University, far from the city, far from everything. He existed here outside of his job, his name, his sexuality. There was something calming about it. 

“Do you need me to help you with your leg brace?” Jim asked, a pair of blue pajamas under his arm. “I might be a little drunk but I think I can handle it.” 

Oswald didn’t answer, but Jim took his silence as an affirmative. He dropped to his knees in front of Oswald, leaning back on his haunches, and patted his thigh. Carefully, his hand on Jim’s shoulder, Oswald lifted his leg and watched Jim very carefully follow the bars of the brace to their fastenings, his lips tight while he worked. 

When he undid the first one, he looked up at Oswald with almost childlike delight, a grin spreading over his mouth so effusively that Oswald chuckled too, absently proud of him. The laugh almost knocked him off balance, and Jim very carefully caught his hands, steadying him by guiding both hands to his shoulders. 

It was surprisingly intimate, his fingers curling into the fabric of Jim’s shirt, Jim’s head tilting to the side, brushing against the top of Oswald’s hand so he could more easily see the last fastening, closest to Oswald’s ankle. Against his better instincts, Oswald allowed his hand to rise, brushing just so against the stubble on Jim’s cheek, the edge of his hair. 

Jim hummed appreciatively, moving his head against Oswald’s hand, reminding him suddenly and forcibly of a cat, and Oswald was starting to think that he could get used to this, this physical contact, this sweet ache in his chest. And as soon as he reveled in it, it was over. Jim snapped the last fastening and leaned back, gently placing Oswald’s foot back on the ground. 

“I can help you to the couch if you –”

“I can manage,” Oswald said, his voice just a little unsteady to his own ears. “Thank you.”

***  
The hospital was empty – large and looming, like the skeleton of an elephant. He could count the ribs in the blown open ceiling, see the places where organs used to be kept. Rooms were completely obliterated, entire corners of what used to be a lobby gone. Jim shifted his gun a little higher on his shoulder, his boots crunching over gravel on the ground. 

There was supposed to be someone with him, wasn’t there? He glanced back, but there was nothing but fog. 

And then the lobby was gone, and he was in a winding hallway, doors closed but not locked, the rooms empty but full of something insidious. Jim crept down toward a large window at the end of the hallway, his hand tightening around the gun and even closer to the trigger. 

A door to his right slammed open and there was an immediate burning in his gut, but he never heard a gun go off. 

He fired in response, feeling the gun bite back. A body slammed into the floor, and it was only then that Jim realized his eyes were closed. He wrenched them open, trying not to breathe in the smell of blood and black powder, and found his adversary on the ground.

Oswald, his chest blown apart, blood on the inside of his lips, gasping, his fingers scrabbling at the floor to find purchase but on what, Jim couldn’t tell. 

He reached for him, let him hold one hand while the other covered the wound. But it didn’t matter, it never mattered, not in this dream. 

***

Oswald woke, disoriented, confused. A light was shining on a porch he didn’t have, and it took him a few moments to remember where he was. He sat up in the dark, trying to figure out exactly what woke him. He closed his eyes and listened, wondering if he was just imagining things. 

But a few moments later, he heard something, a cry from down the hallway. Without thinking, he stood, his palm resting on the wall to steady himself without his cane. 

“I’m sorry,” he heard, and even though he knew instinctively that whatever was happening to Jim was just a nightmare, but still, he tried to quicken his pace. Jim’s door was cracked, just enough that Oswald could turn on the hall light and see into the room. 

He was tangled in the sheets, sweat shining on his face, the furrow in his brow deeper than ever. His hands were clenched into fists, one in his hair, the other over his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered again despondently. 

Oswald nudged the door open, spreading light farther into the room, and stepped inside. “Jim,” he said softly. Jim didn’t answer, didn’t even stir, and he stepped deeper into the room, reaching for the edge of the bed so he wouldn’t fall over and embarrass himself. 

“Jim,” he repeated. “It’s just a nightmare,” he said, just a little louder, reaching out for Jim’s hand, to loosen the fist near his face first. At his touch, Jim’s hand clung to his, clammy and shaking, and Oswald reached for the other one. 

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s going to be okay. You just have to wake up and then it’s over.” 

With a gasp, Jim jolted upright, breathing like he couldn’t quite fill his lungs the way he needed to. His eyes, wide and wild, found Oswald’s in the darkness, and for a moment, Oswald was sure Jim didn’t recognize him, didn’t know who he was. And then he collapsed, pulling himself forward so his head was in Oswald’s lap, sobbing heavily, his hands gripping Oswald’s legs like he was afraid he would disappear. 

“I’m so sorry,” he cried. “I – I’m so sorry, I should have looked, I shouldn’t have –”

“It’s okay,” Oswald shushed gently. “It’s okay, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

They stayed that way for a while, Oswald running his hands through Jim’s hair, whispering words of comfort that were soon just sounds, Jim’s sobs eventually quieting to cries, then to sniffles, and then to heavy, even breathing that said he was asleep again. 

With a smile, Oswald extricated himself and stood, ready to ease his way back out the door to let Jim sleep. He was halfway out the door when he heard his voice. 

“Come back,” it was barely above a whisper, but soft and sweet. “Please.” 

Oswald turned back to him, Jim’s blue eyes just barely visible in the dim light. It should have been easy to say no, to go back to the couch, and then he would go back to his routine tomorrow, this discrepancy in his schedule a blip on his radar until he forgot about it. But still, he stood in the doorway, the ache in his gut betraying him. 

Before he could stop himself, he was sliding into the sheets, beside Jim, and Jim was pulling him closer, his nose just barely brushing Oswald’s collarbone, his hands possessive and soft and thrilling. 

“I can keep you safe like this,” he murmured, barely decipherable, and Oswald felt the breath in his lungs stutter to a stop. 

Oh hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Jim take....a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for taking an unannounced break from this fic, but I had to finish up the semester and submit grades and all of that jazz. Now that that is done, I can finally get back to this! It is important that I reiterate that this is definitely Gobblepot endgame, and this is a slow burn. Just in case anyone forgot. :)

The hard vibration of his phone screen against his cheek shook him roughly from the deepest slumber Oswald had experienced in a long time. For a few wild seconds, he couldn’t figure out where he was, but the warmth of Jim’s arm around his waist kept him still. He peeked over his shoulder at him, sound asleep, his eyelashes splayed out over his cheek, the wrinkle in his brow finally smoothed, and carefully pulled his phone out from under him. 4:28 in the morning, his phone screen read.

Edward. Fourteen missed calls. 

Suddenly, the heavy weight of reality crashed over him, and quickly, as gently as he could, he was pulling himself upright, careful not to jostle Jim in the process. Slowly, nervously, he slipped out the bedroom door and closed it, leaning against the wall to take the pressure off of his leg. 

Being here was a bad idea; sleeping here was an even worse idea, and crawling into bed with his student probably rivaled one of the worst ideas he ever had. “Stupid,” he muttered angrily to himself, limping down the hallway and into the living room so Jim couldn’t hear him. 

He supposed he should call Edward back, he thought ruefully, staring at the notification anxiously. Clearly he was worried, or angry. Either way, he deserved a response. Nerves coiled in his belly, tight and almost nauseating, but he pressed his finger to Edward’s name anyway, inhaling sharply through his nose as the line stuttered its first ring. 

“Oswald,” Edward didn’t sound mad; on the contrary, his name was breathed over the line like a laugh. “Finally, I thought something happened to you.” 

Oswald exhaled shakily, suddenly feeling so stupid. “Can you do something for me?” he asked. 

Edward paused, and the relief morphed into what sounded like worry. “Of course I can,” he said. “What is it? Where are you?” 

***

It took the drive from the parking lot to the road adjacent to it before Edward exploded. 

“What were you thinking?” he exclaimed, his hands tight around the steering wheel. “Of all the short-sighted, destructive things –”

Oswald rolled his eyes. Being yelled at was not his strong suit. “I know, okay. I already know, you don’t have to beat a dead horse.” 

“He’s your student –”

“Believe it or not, I know that,” Oswald snapped. “It wasn’t supposed to – it was just supposed to be a drink.” 

“So go to a bar,” Edward replied sharply. “Go somewhere public. Not his apartment!” 

Oswald leaned his chin on his hand and watched the sleepy city slide past. “I’m just going to doze off here, wake me up when you’re done with this…lecture.” 

Edward sighed, the car gently coming to a stop at a red light. “I don’t mean to lecture you,” he said. “I just – I was worried when you weren’t home and weren’t answering my calls. And after what happened last time we saw each other –”

“I’m sorry,” Oswald blurted, his head still looking out the window. He wasn’t sure if he could bear looking at Edward while he said it. “I shouldn’t have assumed you had any feelings for me or…or acted like such an asshole when you told me you had a girlfriend.” 

The light turned green and Edward pressed his foot to the gas a little too hard, his head leaning back with the added speed. They made it a block or so before the silence finally broke.

“I – I’m not sure what to say,” Ed stammered, the anger completely gone from his voice now. “I guess I should have told you about Isabella. I just – didn’t want to jinx it.” 

“I’m happy for you,” Oswald said flatly. 

To his credit, Edward didn’t contradict him. They sat the rest of the short car ride in silence.

***

The weekend slipped by with intermittent naps, strained silences, and self-loathing. Oswald found himself completely incapable of focusing on anything beyond what would happen on Monday morning, when his class with Jim would meet again. Jim didn’t have his phone number, so Oswald could do nothing but imagine what his reaction was when he woke up and found that Oswald was gone without even a note. 

Was he angry? Was he sad? Did he regret inviting Oswald to his apartment? Or was he completely unbothered; Oswald’s visit just a blip on his radar, sandwiched between two other, more interesting encounters? He wasn’t sure which reaction would upset him more. 

One thing Oswald couldn’t let go of, couldn’t get past, was the ache in his chest whenever he thought about him. It was both nerves and fondness, a special kind of tension he couldn’t remember feeling since he first felt a connection to Edward. And look at how well that turned out, he thought bitterly. 

His half-hearted apology seemed to appease Edward enough that their relationship went back to what, on the surface, was the same as before. The only difference was in the careful way they tip-toed around any conversation that might steer beyond the weather, or class. They didn’t talk about Isabella again, and Edward avoided mentioning Jim. 

They managed to make it until Sunday night before the subject forced its way to the forefront again. 

“Can you pass me the laptop?” Edward’s voice shook Oswald out of his melancholic reverie. “I have to check my email.” 

Oswald obliged, pulling the charger from the port and passing it to the other side of the couch, where Edward had his socked feet propped up on the coffee table. “Thanks,” he muttered, pulling it open and tapping a key to wake it up. 

For a moment, Edward just squinted at the screen before a wrinkle appeared in his brow and he tutted disapprovingly. “Um, I think –” Edward passed the computer back, “you’re still logged into your email account.” 

“Oh,” Oswald pulled the laptop closer, his eyes catching the top unread email, from Jim. 

“I’m sorry for what happened. I’m going to the registrar tomorrow to drop your class –”

Oswald didn’t even click on it. He slammed the log out button, passing the computer back over to Edward, his stomach roiling like he was about to be sick. His brain felt scattered, like all of the pieces were just too far apart to be put together to make any sort of coherent thought. He exhaled shakily, pressing the heels of his hands into the recesses of his eyes.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me what else happened while you were over there?” Edward’s voice was quiet, but the hard edge was lurking underneath the tone. Immediately, Oswald felt his hackles rise. Edward made it sound like he and Jim had some insidious romp between the sheets rather than a decently enlightening conversation and the best few hours of sleep Oswald had gotten in years.

Oswald swallowed, hard. “Nothing happened.” 

Edward scoffed, his fingers slamming into the keys with more force than necessary. “Is that why he’s going to drop your class?” 

“It’s not any of your business, actually,” Oswald snapped. 

Edward stopped typing, tilting his head to look in Oswald’s direction, his concern morphing with condescension. “I’m just looking out for you –” 

“It sounds like you’re judging me,” he replied testily. “Frankly, it’s the last thing I need.” 

Edward fell silent for a moment, long enough that Oswald hoped that this ordeal was finally over, that maybe he could go to his room and agonize over that email in peace. He figured Jim would have questions for him on Monday, that they would have an incredibly awkward conversation in his office after class, not that Jim would be gone from his life so quickly. It was even worse knowing that Jim would be gone without knowing why Oswald left. 

He could respond to the email, he could seek him out and explain, but would that be even more of an ethical violation that what they had already done? Jim probably didn’t want to see him again anyway, not after he left like that, without even saying goodbye. A wave of sadness so strong overtook him that he got to his feet, reaching for his cane. It would be better to think about this in his room. Edward’s eyes followed him, watching his retreat carefully. 

“What are you going to do if he tells someone?” Edward asked. 

“I don’t know,” Oswald exclaimed, turning back to Edward quickly, his voice louder and harsher than he intended. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if he tells someone, and I certainly don’t know what I’m going to do if I see him on campus, or at a bar, or –”

Edward jumped to his feet, crossing the room to Oswald. “Okay, okay,” he said soothingly, “it’ll be okay, Oswald, it’ll be okay, you’re panicking. Breathe.” 

Was he panicking? Oswald could hear his frantic breaths, sharp and shallow, but through ears that weren’t really hearing anything. Edward’s hand came to rest on his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, his voice, as though through a tunnel, telling him to breathe deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth. 

He followed the instructions as best he could, the roaring in his ears subsiding, the sound of his breathing growing louder and louder as his body started to calm. Edward smiled, just a moment, and pulled Oswald into a hug, his hand that was on Oswald’s cheek now cradling the back of his head.

It was comforting, it was intoxicating, but it shouldn’t have been. Before he could stop himself, Oswald pushed Ed away, crossing his arms over his chest, hugging himself. 

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his eyes on Edward’s feet, unable to look him in the eye. “Please, just don’t.” 

“I’m sorry,” Edward took a step back, and Oswald could hear him exhaling heavily through his nose. “I shouldn’t have. I just – I was so worried when I got home and you weren’t here, and then when you told me you were at…his place –”

Oswald glanced up, daring to chance a look at Edward’s face; his cheeks were bright red, his mouth in a firm line. 

“I – I don’t know, I guess I was upset that it took you all of one day to –”

“To what?” Oswald asked. “To get over you?” Edward’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he looked down, away from Oswald’s prying eyes. “You rejected me,” he pointed out. “Or did you forget?” 

“I didn’t forget, alright?” Edward snapped. “I was there, I remember.” 

Oswald frowned, trying to read the curious expression on Edward’s face. He looked…angry and tortured, far too emotionally invested in what was originally a bland and almost expressionless conversation. 

“Ed –”

And then Edward was kissing him. Oswald didn’t respond, didn’t kiss him back, but froze, trying to process what was happening. But Edward’s lips were warm, soft, and demanding, his hands on his arms tentative and shaking; he pulled away for a moment, his hand coming back to Oswald’s cheekbone, brushing over the soft skin, and Oswald caved. 

He met Edward’s lips cautiously, allowing him to lead. He still wasn’t sure why Edward was kissing him, what was happening, but he was, at his core, a selfish man, and he was willing to take what Edward was willing to give. 

Once Oswald kissed back, Edward took the response as a sign of approval, and pulled Oswald closer, so their whole bodies were pressed together, his other hand falling to Oswald’s hip, his fingers pressing their own kisses through his shirt. Oswald broke the kiss first, his head falling back onto the wall behind him, overwhelmed. Edward peppered kisses to the pale column of his throat, the warmth of his lips almost too hot, soft and hard and wet and like a dream. 

Edward’s hands suddenly released him and he pulled back, surveying Oswald, face flushed and hair a mess, an almost delirious smile on his face. 

It was all Oswald ever wanted; even as he thought it, Edward reached for the buttons on his shirt and started undoing them from the bottom first, his hands sliding underneath the material to caress the untouched skin below. 

“We could –” Oswald stuttered through a breathy gasp. “We could probably take this somewhere more comfortable.” 

Edward grinned at him, giddy and almost unrecognizable. “We could.” 

***

Oswald woke Monday morning in his own bed, naked save for a pair of boxers he had on inside out, his phone alarm going off underneath the sheets of his bed, pushed to the floor carelessly. With a groan, he fumbled for it, sliding halfway off the bed as he did.

He had class in an hour.

That hour passed in a flurry of hurried activity; he showered, got dressed, and got out the door in record time, his breakfast nothing but the traveling thermos of coffee he packed. 

He barely made it to the campus shuttle in time (his only form of transportation when Edward wasn’t there to drive), but make it he did, and before he could mentally prepare himself, he was standing in front of his psychology class, staring at the empty chair Jim used to sit in, realizing only then that he wasn’t wearing his brace, but using his cane, because his brace was still at Jim’s apartment. 

***

Jim watched the clock turn from 10 to 10:01, his jaw tight. It had been only half an hour since he gave the registrar the form needed to drop his psychology class, but he figured he would remember the ordeal for a very long time. The line had been long, the people in it faceless. He spent the whole wait refreshing his email, hoping Mr. Cobblepot had responded to his email, had finally said that Jim shouldn’t drop the class, that he shouldn’t apologize.

But the reply never appeared, and Jim reluctantly turned in the form.

He woke on Saturday morning peacefully, the sun shining and birds singing outside. He had been, for a moment, happy; he managed to sleep without night terrors. Reality allowed him only a few moments of that peace before he remembered crying, Oswald’s soft voice in the dark, pulling him into the sheets, pressing their bodies together, relishing in the warmth. 

So where was he now? 

There was no sign Oswald had ever even been in his apartment, and after a short inspection, Jim had to finally accept that he was gone, and that he hadn’t left a note. All he left behind was his leg brace, sitting almost accidentally hidden underneath a couch cushion, discarded and forgotten in their buzzed lethargy. 

He must have made Oswald so uncomfortable, Jim thought, so uncomfortable that he had no choice but to wait for Jim to fall asleep again so he could leave. That had to be it, right? No one in their right mind would want to stay here after Jim went and had a stupid nightmare and cried. 

God, he must have made an absolute fool of himself, crying all over Oswald and asking him to stay with him. Oswald was his teacher, he was his student, what the hell was he thinking? Jim sighed, running his hands through his hair, pulling at it slightly when his frustration peaked. He never should have talked to Oswald at all – he shouldn’t have even come to college in the first place. 

No, he thought vehemently. That wasn’t rational. Everyone makes bad decisions, everyone had missteps. Jim repeated the same mantra his therapist told him for the short time he entertained therapy. There was no reason to blow a simple mistake out of proportion. Focus on what you can control. 

Jim took a deep breath. What could he control? 

“I’m sorry for what happened. I’m going to the registrar tomorrow to drop your class. I never should have pushed the boundaries of professionalism the way I did, and I’m sorry to have put you in such a difficult position. Even though I won’t be in your class anymore, I want you to know that our connection was very real, and I enjoyed the time I spent with you.” 

He didn’t even sign it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Oswald meet again, Edward's rash actions have consequences, and both Jim and Oswald meet potential new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Oswald have a great dynamic, and I promise I will get back to that, but both of them need people outside of each other. Also, I know that Jim's conversation with his brother is a bit vague, but I promise more will be explained in the next chapter!

In the early afternoon, when Jim was well into his third hour of mindlessly flipping through the Netflix menu (Die Hard wasn’t on Netflix for some reason), watching nothing in particular, his phone beeped loudly twice, indicating that he had an email. Sighing like a man who was actually doing something important that he couldn’t bear to be torn away from, Jim pulled his phone out from underneath his psychology notebook, still mostly empty. 

“Mr. Gordon,

I noticed that you decided to drop Psychology 1200 this morning. Unfortunately, dropping that class puts you under 12 hours a semester, which is the minimum you need to meet for your VA benefits to pay for tuition. You need to immediately enroll in a new class; I took the liberty of including a few below that I would suggest. Since we are still in the beginning of the semester, you should be able to get into the class and catch up with little difficulty. 

Class suggestions: 

English 1301 – MWF 10 a.m. – Theodore Galavan  
Business Management 1121 – MWF 10 a.m. – Salvatore Maroni   
Finance 2100 – MWF 10 a.m. – Carmine Falcone 

Obviously I chose those classes because they are entry-level classes that take place during your now open spot on your schedule. Please let me know which class you’d like to take so I can email the professor to let them know to have a syllabus sent to you.

Regards,   
Sarah Essen  
Gotham University Center for Student Support  
VA Representative.”

Jim read the email once, the words glossing over as he got closer to the end. He had forgotten he needed to meet a minimum of 12 hours a semester to get his VA benefits; if he had remembered, he certainly wouldn’t have dropped Mr. Cobblepot’s class. Or, rather, he wouldn’t have said he would, hoping the man in question would talk him out of it. 

Now he was going to have to get into another class, catch up, and also try to erase his short…whatever that was…with Mr. Cobblepot from his mind, all at once. 

It was almost too much for him to even think about at the same time, and for a moment, Jim seriously thought about how easy it would be for him to just…not show up to class anymore. Sure, he would fail and get kicked out of school because he couldn’t pay his tuition, but emails are easy to ignore, and so are phone calls. Certainly they are easier to ignore than feelings.

That thought was only fleeting, though, and as the moment passed, he scrolled back up to the three classes his advisor included. Of the three, English sounded the least intimidating, so he was inclined to go with that one. Business and finance both sounded boring and stuffy, but with English, he could probably procrastinate a few essays and bullshit his way through with little difficulty. 

He clicked ‘reply’ and told his advisor to sign him up for English, closing out the apps and tossing his phone aside as soon as he was done. He could hardly bear to look at his email while the one he sent to Mr. Cobblepot still remained unanswered. He understood not answering the email initially; he was all too familiar with the idea of taking the easy way out, as it were. 

Answering the email, acknowledging their tentative connection that clearly went beyond the classroom, would leave tangible evidence of something the university was sure to frown upon. Jim understood leaving that unanswered – at least he did, until he dropped the class. Surely there was nothing keeping Mr. Cobblepot (Oswald, he corrected angrily) from answering now. He wasn’t his student anymore, the damage was done. 

But no answer came, and Jim was forced to linger on the thought that maybe what he felt for Oswald was only one-sided. Maybe this…crush he had was only in his head.

It couldn’t be, he thought vehemently. He felt the way Oswald pressed the palm of his hand to Jim’s cheek when he undid his leg brace, Jim felt the way his breathing hitched when Jim returned the contact. There was no way he imagined what was going on there. 

No way. 

His eyes found the discarded leg brace, this time sitting on the couch cushion beside him, and wanted immediately to cover it. He didn’t want to look at it ever again, but at the same time, he knew that Oswald needed it. He would have taught his class without it today; Jim knew Oswald had been self-conscious of the cane the whole time he lectured. He didn’t have to sit in the class to know. 

He picked it up, snapping it together in his hands. Oswald had office hours tomorrow, he thought definitively. He could give it to him then. It would be nothing but a quick handoff, and he would be done. 

***

The next day, his previous bravado receded dramatically; he lingered outside Oswald’s office, the leg brace in his hand, staring at the sign bearing his name on the door. It should be easy to knock, to open the door, hand it off, and leave. But it wasn’t; some conversation would have to ensue, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t sure what that conversation would be, and if he couldn’t answer the question, Jim rationalized that maybe he could just…leave the brace outside? Leave it in his box, maybe? 

“Are you here to see Mr. Cobblepot?” A brisk, almost over-enunciated voice startled him, and Jim turned to find a lanky man, dressed in an olive green polo and tartan golf pants, with horn rimmed glasses.

“Uh…” Jim hedged as he felt the door behind him open. “I just wanted to give him this.” He held up the leg brace. He watched as the newcomer’s eyes landed on the brace, his mouth pressing into a thin line. 

“Jim?” Oswald’s voice was quiet, not nearly as intimidating as Jim remembered it, and Jim tore his eyes away from the other man to find the same blue-grey eyes that immediately calmed him. “Ed?” Oswald’s gaze lifted to the man behind Jim, and he watched as a blush snuck up his neck to his cheeks. 

A sneaking tendril of suspicion wound its way up Jim’s back and settled around his neck; he glanced back toward Ed, who was smiling at Oswald a little too familiarly, and back to Oswald. 

“I just came to give you back this,” he held the brace out, resisting the urge to push it into Oswald’s hands and leave. Oswald’s eyes found it, and the blush deepened, extending all the way to his ears. Jim almost smiled at it, at the comfort that at least he hadn’t imagined everything. Oswald reached out to take it, his thumb just barely brushing over Jim’s pinkie finger as he did. 

“Oswald,” Ed’s voice cut through the silence, and Jim wanted to punch him. “I made us lunch reservations.” 

Oswald took the brace fully, his hands retreating to his side. “I uh – I will be right there,” he stammered. “I just –” he glanced at Jim’s face, searching for something that Jim would have easily provided had he known what it was. “Jim and I need to make sure he’s all squared away…for –” 

“Class,” Jim finished, and Edward narrowed his eyes at them both. “He’ll be just a minute.” 

And then he ushered Oswald into his office and shut the door firmly behind him. 

***

Oswald immediately put distance between himself and Jim; just the smell of his soap took him back to Jim’s bed, Jim’s apartment, and he could feel the heat on his cheeks, his ears. He retreated to the chair beside the door, and Jim stared at the other one like he wasn’t sure he should take it. 

“Thank you for bringing this back,” he said just to fill the silence. 

“So I guess your apology got you a lot more brownie points with your roommate than you were expecting,” he said it so flatly that Oswald almost missed the implication of his statement. As it was, it took him a few seconds to decode what Jim meant. 

“I’m sorry for not returning your email –”

“No, you’re not,” Jim said. “And I don’t hold it against you, really,” he added when Oswald looked stricken, “I’m sure it was way easier to just…not say anything at all.”

“I just didn’t – I didn’t want to be unprofessional –”

“I think we’re well past that, don’t you?” Jim interrupted. 

“James –”

Jim dropped himself into the seat across from him. “Can you just – be honest with me for a few moments before you go on your little lunch date?” 

“It’s not –”

“Oz, please –”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Oswald’s face tinged pink again at the shortened version of his name. “We were – crossing a line –”

Jim huffed in frustration, leaning forward to catch one of Oswald’s hands between his own. “I didn’t pull you over that line,” he pointed out. “Or push you. We went over that line willingly, together, didn’t we?” 

Oswald stared at their two hands, trying to focus on how their skin felt against each other, knowing that this could very well be the last time their hands touched. There was something very soothing about Jim’s skin, rough and a little calloused, his hold as tender as ever. Oswald wasn’t sure how to answer the question; both answers were damaging in their own way. A yes would stretch this already painful conversation, and a no would be a downright lie. But still, it felt wrong to have this conversation while Edward was waiting for him on the other side of the door. 

“We shouldn’t have,” he said softly.

Jim retracted his hand, his jaw set. “Right,” he nodded once, standing up. “Of course. Enjoy your lunch.” 

Before Oswald could stop him, he pulled the door open and was stalking down the hallway, head down, avoiding Edward’s eye. Oswald watched him go, unable to think of something he could say to make this particular hurt better. 

Edward watched Jim leave, his brow furrowed. Once he turned the corner, he turned back to Oswald. “He wanted to talk about class?” he asked. 

Oswald shrugged one shoulder. 

***

Edward did not have lunch reservations; in fact, he didn’t really have any cemented plans for lunch at all. He took Oswald to a café a few blocks from campus, with only one sheet for a menu. They didn’t speak while they read, Oswald still feeling the tension left over from Edward’s encounter with Jim. They were both so different, he couldn’t really fathom them ever having a conversation, much less having anything in common. 

That didn’t even begin to cover the way Jim read right through them both instantly. The way he asked Oswald about Edward, knowingly and a little forcefully, still made him ache in the chest. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Jim sounded a little…angry at the prospect of Oswald being with Edward. Two days ago, he didn’t have anyone who wanted him, and today, he apparently had two. 

He wasn’t sure what to do with that information. 

Edward set the menu down on the table, tapping his fingers over it. “We haven’t…talked,” he began, with absolutely no finesse. “About…”

“You don’t have to say it,” Oswald said, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “But it was…nice,” he said wistfully, his hand reaching for Ed’s over the table. In contrast to Jim’s tentative and comforting hold, Edward’s hand was clammy and altogether not very comforting. 

“I didn’t intend…” Edward hesitated as one of the baristas walked past them, holding cups of coffee for another table. “That is to say, my intention was not to do…what we did…” He paused again, as if hoping Oswald would interrupt him, but he just raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. “I’m still with Isabella.” 

It was Oswald’s turn to hesitate, hoping that Edward would continue. 

“And…you’re not going to change that?” he coaxed. Edward cleared his throat, pulling his hand free of Oswald’s and hiding it under the table. 

“Oswald, I think – I think I love her,” he said breathlessly, a smile taking over his face as he said the words. 

Oswald wanted to laugh; there was something so cosmically ridiculous about this situation, about his entire life, that merited laughter, but instead he pursed his lips and said nothing. He could beg, he could grovel; hell, he could blackmail, but what would that solve? Edward would still think he loved Isabella, and Oswald would still be alone.

“You think you love her,” he repeated dumbly, unable to come up with anything else. 

“I’m pretty sure,” Edward said firmly. 

Oswald finally managed a chuckle, a weak laugh that Edward caught, his gaze quizzical. “If you love her, then why did you sleep with me?” 

“God, would you keep your voice down?” Edward immediately turned completely around, surveying passers-by to see if someone overheard him. 

“I’m not yelling at you,” Oswald pointed out sharply. “I’m asking you a question at a normal volume. Or, perhaps your issue isn’t with my volume but with the fact that I’m asking you why you cheated on your girlfriend, who you supposedly love.” 

“Oswald –”

“Or are you just scared that someone will hear that you slept with another man?” Oswald asked, the question a low hiss. 

“This is not a conversation we should be having in public,” Edward snapped. 

“I guess you shouldn’t have made a reservation then,” Oswald replied sarcastically. “Did you have that line planned all along or did you make it up when you realized who Jim was?” 

Edward dropped his gaze to the table, swallowing thickly. “I think it’s best if I go –”

“Oh, don’t let me keep you,” Oswald sneered. “I’m sure you have another reservation with Isabella in half an hour you can’t bear to miss.” 

Edward was too busy looking for eavesdroppers to respond to the jab, and Oswald was left full of angry energy and no outlet, the menu discarded in front of him. 

It would be so much easier to be this angry in the privacy of his own home, where he could throw a plate and feel the satisfied rattle of it shattering. Instead he was forced to sit calmly in the chair as a barista sauntered up to him, her little notepad ready to take the order he was not prepared to give. 

The sheer ridiculousness of the situation lessened the sting a little. He glanced up at her, a pretty redhead covered in freckles, and back down to the menu. 

“What can I getcha?” she asked, her voice perky and almost saccharine. 

“Whatever you recommend,” Oswald replied, passing the menu back. “As long as it has caffeine and also comes with some form of a sandwich.” 

She blinked, surprised, but collected the menus just the same. “You got it,” she answered. She made it halfway to the door to the kitchen before she turned back. “How do you feel about green tea?” she asked. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Coffee it is, then,” she nodded sagely, disappearing behind a swinging door. 

***

Jim, in the interest of avoiding Oswald, returned to the Sirens bar, knowing even as he did that he would hate every second he spent there. It was loud, impersonal, and most of the hard liquor was watered down, but at least he could fly under the radar there. 

So instead of going back to the bar he actually liked, he ordered a double scotch and sipped it easily, knowing about half of it was just water, his eyes on a rerun football game playing behind the bar. 

“Jim Gordon, right?” a rough voice cut through the chatter, and a long-haired man with a scraggly beard slipped into the chair beside him. 

“Yeah,” Jim answered, offering the man his hand. 

“Harvey Bullock,” the man replied. “Sorry about blurtin’ your name out like that. I work in the VA office at Gotham U. I just filed your new degree plan paperwork today, so your face was fresh in my mind.” 

“You work at the university?” Jim asked dumbly, still trying to process that someone knew him, that someone remembered him. 

“Yeh man, been there for four years now,” Harvey replied, tapping the bar with what looked like an old class ring. Immediately, a beer appeared in front of him. “It’s definitely not the best job in the world, but it beats working in the post office.” 

“I suppose it does,” Jim replied, not sure he was even following the conversation. Harvey was loud, brusque, and kind of rude, but mostly the same kind of guy Jim got used to talking to when he was in the army. It didn’t take him long to find the conversational rhythm, and after another glass of scotch, Harvey was good company. 

At least, he was a good distraction. 

Hours later, Harvey drove him home (“I’m sober man, I swear,” he promised) and Jim collapsed into his bed, face down in the pillow, ready to sleep. He shimmied out of his jeans, trying to get undressed without getting up. He managed to mostly accomplish his goal when his phone started vibrating, deep in the pocket of his discarded jeans. 

With a groan, he forced himself up and pulled his pants back onto the bed, fishing his phone out of the front pocket. 

“Thomas?” he asked groggily into the phone. “What’s wrong?” 

His brother laughed, a manic, off-putting laugh that Jim immediately recognized. He hadn’t heard it for years. “Big brother!” he crowed, much too loudly. “I uh, I need a place to stay for a few days. Do you mind if I crash at your apartment?” 

Jim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Is something wrong with Marissa?” he asked. 

Thomas huffed. “Marissa is mad at me. Said I should take some time to clear my head.” 

“Well, your wife usually knows best,” Jim said woodenly. “When are you coming by?” 

“I’ll be there in twenty,” the phone call ended abruptly, leaving Jim holding the phone against his face, a million questions on the edge of his lips that he couldn’t ask.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald makes an effort to get his life in order, Jim's brother makes an appearance. Also featuring appearances by Leslie Thompkins, Tabitha Galavan, and Selina Kyle.

With fifteen minutes before his brother was due to arrive, Jim only allowed himself to process this news for a moment before he forced himself up to brother-proof his apartment. Thomas was the middle Gordon son, and all of the stereotypes ascribed to the middle child seemed to apply to him – he was dramatic, selfish, and spent most of his teenage years in juvenile detention for drug use. 

It had been half a decade or so since then, and Thomas was constantly promising both to his family and his Narcotics Anonymous group that he was done with drugs, done with any substance that altered his brain chemistry. For a while, Jim couldn’t bring himself to believe it; it would take more than a little chip from NA to convince him that Tommy was done stealing money out of his mother’s wallet to buy coke or Demerol from some greasy guy at the corner between the Baptist Church and a broken down gas station. 

Marissa had been the catalyst Jim needed to really welcome his brother back into his life; she was warm and inviting, never once judging Tommy for what he’d done when he was younger. She worked in social services, a caseworker for foster kids, and she had seen and understood what addiction could do to a family. Instead of hardening her, it made her truly see Tommy for who he was: someone with a disease who needed support and patience. 

If she had kicked him out, that only meant one thing: Tommy had relapsed, again. 

Jim stood in his living room, staring at different areas, trying to decide what needed to be hidden or thrown out. He made sure the only gun in the apartment was locked in his safe, and put his straight razors and wallet in there too, just to be safe. A quick glance in his medicine cabinet told him that the hardest drug he had in the place was Advil PM, and he shut it with a sigh of relief. 

He had just remembered to grab his alcohol and hide it when the first knock rattled into the room, uneven and slurred. 

“Just a minute,” he called, scooping up the few bottles he had, jogging into his bedroom and sliding them under his bed. 

The knock came again, this time more forceful, and Jim swung the door open, simultaneously prepared and completely ignorant of what he would find on the other side. 

Tommy was sweating, the beads prominent against his forehead, where his hairline was just starting to recede. His eyes were bright with a frantic energy that Jim immediately recognized. He sighed heavily, stepping aside to let his brother come in. 

“Jimbo!” Tommy crowed, so loud that it echoed in the hallway outside. Jim flinched, closing the door sharply in the sound’s wake. “I missed you, big brother!”

He pulled him into a bone-crushing hug that Jim half-heartedly returned before gently extricating himself. In the dim light of his entry, Jim took in his brother’s clothes, dirty and torn, his shoes untied. 

“What happened to you?” he asked suspiciously. “I thought Marissa threw you out.” 

Tommy shrugged. “She did,” he said cagily. “But I had to walk here.” 

“Walk?!” Jim asked incredulously. “But…you just called and said you were coming over. There’s no way you walked ten miles in twenty minutes.” 

Tommy snickered, the sound so quiet he was obviously laughing at a joke only he understood. “Yeah, funny story,” he began, pushing his hair back, his hands unsteady. “I forgot to call you when I left so I just…I remembered when I was like…a mile or two away so I – so I called then.” 

The story, once told, amused him all over again, and he laughed, leaning against the door in mirth. Jim watched him, his previous buzz completely gone and a headache rapidly taking its place. 

“What did you take?” he asked, unable to keep the question in anymore. 

Tommy’s laughter immediately dissipated; he fixed his older brother with an unsettling glare. “What kinda question is that?” 

“A logical one,” Jim replied sternly. “Tell me what you took.” 

Tommy forced himself off the door and lumbered toward the living room, his path only partially blocked by Jim’s body; he nudged Jim out of the way so he could collapse on the couch. “I didn’t take shit, alright, I just had a couple of drinks.” 

“So why don’t you smell like alcohol?” Jim asked shrewdly. 

“Because,” his brother stammered, sitting up indignantly, “because I sweat it off.” 

“So…you’re still acting high because…?”

“I didn’t come here to be interrogated,” Tommy snapped, standing up so quickly that he swayed, his hand coming up to brace himself on the wall. “I came here for a place to stay.” 

“Then let me be clear,” Jim said firmly. “I will not have drug use in my apartment. No drugs, no booze, no nothing. So if you were looking for a place to have a bender, this is not it. Am I clear?” 

Tommy stared at him, his brow just furrowed enough that Jim could tell he wasn’t happy. For a moment, he was painfully aware that his younger brother was much larger than him, broad shouldered and tall. But even as he was wondering what a fight between them would end like, Tommy dropped his glare and laughed, and Jim released a held breath. 

“You got it, big bro,” he said, sitting down again. “Now go get some sleep, you look like shit.” 

***  
Oswald spent the night after his disastrous lunch date with Edward in a motel near campus; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to confront Edward more than he already had, necessarily, but now that he knew Ed had no intention of breaking up with his girlfriend in spite of his indiscretion, he knew it was a slippery slope to a friends with benefits situation that he wasn’t sure he could deny he wanted. 

His physical attraction to Edward was betraying his own moral compass. As it was, he had a very specific set of rules he followed, society’s be damned, and being a part of any kind of affair broke one of them. If he couldn’t trust himself, and he certainly couldn’t trust Edward, the best he could do was put distance between them. 

The silence was actually soothing, and that bit of introspection allowed him to think with a clarity that the apartment would have muddled. It was clear to him, fairly quickly, that he was going to have to move out. It was the only real option if he wanted to stay away from Edward, and the more he thought about it, he really did. 

He did like who he was when he was obsessed with Edward.

It took only a couple of well-placed calls before he managed to find a studio apartment at the Gotham Bridge Apartments, the same complex that housed Jim Gordon. It was unfortunate, but on short notice, it was the best he could do. 

That night, as he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, he wondered if he and Jim would ever be friends again. With Jim safely out of his class, with Edward out of the picture, Oswald could hope, in the privacy of his mind, that they could. 

Maybe he would get lucky. 

***

In short bursts, when he knew Edward was in class, lab, or recitation, Oswald squirreled away his belongings, shoving them into empty bags and boxes, hoarding them in his new apartment, empty and sad with almost no furniture. He and Edward had bought their furniture together, and without help, he had no way of taking any of it out of the apartment. 

Finally, when all that was left was his bed, alone in an empty room he had adored, full of memories that made him immediately second-guess his decision to leave, he called an Uber and promised them extra if they brought help enough to move a bed to a new apartment. 

Half an hour later, Oswald was getting anxious, and his Uber still hadn’t arrived. He tapped his foot on the tile floor, his eyes on his phone. Edward would be getting out of his lab in fifteen minutes, and by then, Oswald hoped to be gone. 

He was too exhausted and sad to deal with another fight. 

A knock rang through the apartment and he opened the door almost before the knock was done. On the other side was a pretty brunette, her smile fading when she saw who it was. 

“Oh,” she said ruefully. “I was…I was looking for Edward?” 

Oswald surveyed her as he stepped aside to let her in. She was tastefully dressed, in a navy blue skirt and a high necked white shirt. There was only one person this could be. “You must be Isabelle,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Oswald.” 

“Nice to meet you, but I’m not Isabelle,” the woman said graciously. “I’m Leslie Thompkins.” 

Before Oswald could allow a scathing remark about Edward to slip past his lips, another knock interrupted him and he held up a hand apologetically to Leslie, who shrugged, and turned back to the door. 

“You called for an Uber?” Yet another beautiful brunette was on the other side of the door, flanked by a teenager with curly hair and feline green eyes. 

“I did,” Oswald replied cautiously. “You two are going to move…the bed?” 

“Is that skepticism I hear?” the teenager asked. Behind Oswald, Leslie chuckled. 

“Just show me where it is,” the driver said, and when Oswald pointed down the hall, she nudged the younger one in that direction. “Get moving, Cat.” 

“Tabby,” the younger girl whined good-naturedly on her way down the hallway. Oswald watched them go, their easy rapport almost nostalgic for a time when he had….well, friends. 

“I take it you’re moving out?” Leslie’s gentle voice shook him out of his wistful silence, and Oswald’s eyes nervously took in the time. They only had ten minutes to get out of there before Edward got home. 

“Uh, yeah, I am,” Oswald replied. And then, because he wasn’t sure what else to say, “I’m sorry Edward isn’t here yet.” 

“Oh, it’s fine, really,” Leslie waved him off politely. “I used to be in the same lab he’s in now, so I knew I ran the risk of getting here too early.” 

Behind Oswald, he could hear the sounds of rummaging, and then a dragging sound. He resisted the urge to turn around and watch his bed get systematically broken into more manageable pieces. Instead, he cleared his throat and refocused on the woman in front of him. 

“That’s right, Ed told me you were thinking of going to medical school instead,” Oswald replied. “Did you finally decide to go to medical school?” 

“I sent out applications a couple of weeks ago, but I won’t hear back for a while,” she said with a smile. “I actually just told Ed I would give him my notes from the anatomy and physiology seminar.” 

Behind him, the sounds were getting louder. Leslie’s eyes left him and found what Oswald assumed was another chunk of his bed being moved into a truck. “You know, you really don’t have to entertain me, especially if you’re busy.” 

“Actually, he would probably just slow us down,” the woman named Tammy called from the doorway, and Oswald managed to catch a flash of her long ponytail as she left, carrying half of his bed’s frame. Oswald didn’t answer, but smiled awkwardly at Leslie, who shrugged one shoulder in response. 

***

“That’s all of it,” the teenager said, popping a piece of gum between her teeth. Oswald stared at his bed, alone and adrift in the middle of his messy apartment. “You need help with anything else?” she asked. 

“I don’t think so,” Oswald answered, his voice small. “Thank you.” 

“You know, I live around here,” she said. “If you need help unpacking some of this stuff, just let me know. I don’t mind.” 

Oswald furrowed his brow. “You don’t even know me.” 

“You’re that psychology teacher from the university,” she said blithely. “Anyway, I’m just saying that I’m always looking for work that isn’t…you know…gross –”

“Who is making you -?”

“Anyway,” she said forcefully enough that he fell silent. “Shoot me a text if you have any work.”

“Let’s go, Selina,” Tabby called from the doorway. 

Selina, or Cat, or whatever her name was, gave Oswald one last significant look before obeying, and in a few moments, he was, unfortunately, alone.

***

The Green Jay Bar was never quite full and simultaneously not so empty that Jim felt like he was inconveniencing the wait staff by coming in. He sat at a stool near the bar, his hand absently curled around a beer, watching the lounge singer but not really seeing her. He enjoyed being in a place with enough noise that he wasn’t alone with his thoughts, but not so loud that he couldn’t function. The Green Jay managed to somehow walk that paper-thin line. 

Tommy was alone in Jim’s apartment, probably tearing his bedroom apart to find whatever contraband Jim had hidden before he showed up. He couldn’t bear to be in Tommy’s presence another minute. He was constantly fidgeting, tapping on every available surface, clicking his tongue against his teeth, making some sort of noise that managed to worm its way into Jim’s head and never leave. 

The ambient sound of a lounge singer was therapeutic by comparison. 

“Glass of merlot, please?” Jim didn’t have to confirm the voice to know who it was. He felt his hand tighten around his glass of beer; he wanted to turn, even if it was just to look, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the bubble of relaxation with awkwardness. If he could pretend that Oswald wasn’t sitting two stools down from him, he could still uncoil some of the tension building at the base of his neck. 

“Thank you,” Oswald’s voice was a little clearer, as if he had somehow gotten closer to Jim. 

The tension at the base of his neck was suddenly worse. 

“James?” 

“Oh, Mr. Cobblepot –”

“Oswald,” he corrected instantly. “I’m not your teacher anymore.” 

Jim turned toward him, finally succumbing to the conversation. “Oswald, then,” he corrected, tilting his head toward the stool beside him. Oswald hesitated, but ultimately smiled softly and took the offered seat. “How are you?” 

“Well, I just moved out of my apartment, so I’ve been better,” Oswald replied offhandedly. 

Jim paused, his beer halfway to his mouth. “Wait,” he said, setting the glass down on the bar. “You moved? What about Edward?” 

Oswald shrugged, his sip of wine much larger than the previous one. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Okay,” Jim answered. “No talking about Edward. Noted.” 

Oswald chuckled, his lips quirking upward in a momentary smile. Jim matched the smile, his gaze dropping to his beer. “What about you, James?” 

“My brother is staying with me because his wife kicked him out,” he said. 

“That’s nice –”

“It’s definitely not,” Jim interrupted. “He’s a disaster. He’s such a disaster that he makes me look like I have my life together.” 

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’re nearly as bad off as you think you are,” Oswald pointed out. “At least you’re trying.” 

“Can I just say I’m sorry for what I did…that night you… -”

“Please,” Oswald said, waving his wine glass dismissively, “do not apologize to me. You have nothing to apologize for.” 

Jim frowned, directing the facial expression into the almost empty glass of beer. “Still. You were trying to be professional and I…provoked you –”

“Stop,” Oswald snapped, his voice far harsher than Jim expected. “That’s completely incorrect. Conversations are a two-way street. If you want to lay blame for…everything, it goes at both of our feet.” 

Jim, his apology refuted, filled the silence by taking another sip of his lukewarm beer. He could feel Oswald’s eyes on him, curious and probing. He couldn’t figure out what to say next that didn’t sound like he pulled out of a cheesy television show, so instead of embarrassing himself, he settled for allowing Oswald the time to stare at him, thinking his mysterious and unknown thoughts. 

“I know I said I wasn’t going to talk about it, but do you want to talk about why you moved out?” Jim asked, unable to let the silence go on any longer. Finally, he turned his knees toward Oswald, so he could better see him. At the mention of his former roommate, a dark red flush crept up Oswald’s neck to his ears. 

“I did a stupid thing,” he said, as if that explained everything. Jim nodded sagely. 

“As an expert in that area, I understand,” he replied, smirking when his joke pulled a smile out of Oswald, too. 

“We slept together.” 

Jim’s smile froze, stilted and uncomfortable, and he closed his eyes, as if doing so would keep him from hearing anything more. “Oh,” he said quietly.

“He was…he was jealous and upset because I was in your apartment and…it just happened,” Oswald’s face was still bright red, his hand tight around the wine glass. “He was threatened by you.” 

Jim cleared his throat, trying to hide a proud smile. Good, he thought firmly. Edward should be threatened. “But – but you said you moved out of your apartment.” 

“He still has a girlfriend,” Oswald said ruefully. “I thought he was…I don’t know, better than that.”

“Because you cared about him,” Jim reasoned. “You will always hope that the person you care about is better than who they are.” 

“Yeah,” Oswald agreed, “I guess you do.”

“When my brother was a teenager, he started doing a lot of drugs,” Jim said, his eyes on something far away from Oswald. “And when he got married, he got clean. I finally hoped that he had gotten his life together, that he decided to be a better person for his wife, for his family. And now…” he laughed, the sound completely devoid of mirth. “Now he’s in my apartment, probably trying to break into my safe for what he thinks is money so he can buy more drugs.” 

“Oh, James, I’m sorry,” Oswald’s hand landed gently on Jim’s wrist, soft and warm. “Well, I now have a studio apartment in your building, so if you need somewhere to go that isn’t a bar or school, you’re always welcome.” 

Jim raised his eyebrows. “You have…an apartment…in my building?” he asked. 

“Short notice,” Oswald pointed out. “And since it’s a room with a bed in it and some coffee mugs, I would hardly call it an apartment.”

“It sounds cozy,” Jim said. 

“Cozy is a synonym of small,” Oswald sniffed. 

“Why don’t you show it to me and I’ll be the judge of that,” Jim replied. “No booze, no sleepovers, no nothing. Just a tour of a small closet with a bed in it.” 

“Is that a promise?” Oswald asked, swirling his last mouthful of wine in the glass before tipping it toward his mouth. Jim gave him a half-hearted salute. “Fine, let’s go.” 

Jim let him lead the way, the better to hide his smile. A day ago, he could only hope that he and Oswald could get back to this place. Today, it was almost too good to be true. Surreptitiously, he pinched his own arm. Nope, he wasn’t dreaming.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Jim's friendship seems to find its groove again. And then - a shake up.

After a week of living in his studio apartment, Oswald was just starting to learn to like his new space. Two visits from Jim that lasted, collectively, an hour and a half allowed him to unpack several boxes, Jim’s company bolstering enough that the idea of putting away his sad amount of things was no longer insurmountable. Now he had a living room “area,” with a rug Jim brought him from Goodwill, with many promises of “I swear it doesn’t have bugs.” 

Selina Kyle also made good progress with the heavier work, like a bookshelf that Oswald bought from the grocery store. She had no problem putting it together without the instructions, muttering to herself that she’d put together far more complicated structures than a house for a bunch of books. 

So when Monday dawned again, Oswald woke to a clean apartment, alone, the sunlight just barely peeking through the only set of curtains he took from his apartment. It was sobering, to wake up to no sound beyond the invariable breaths he took himself, but he didn’t dislike it. 

He brewed his coffee in silence, content to allow the percolating coffeemaker to keep him company. 

His first class of the day, the one Jim used to be in, was his least favorite now. Barbara Kean and a scruffy man in the back, Jonathon Crane, were his best students, simply because they were the only ones who somehow managed to turn their assignments in on time. The rest of the students were either half asleep, completely apathetic, or took at least one class day off a week. 

He sipped his coffee in the silence, thinking pensively about Edward. At around this time, he would be drinking his second cup of coffee while reading a textbook, an egg frying on the stove, perilously close to burning. He would be only half-dressed, wearing an undershirt and his slacks, but no dress shirt yet, no tie, no sweater. 

He always looked so domestic, so at peace, that Oswald loved to take a moment to watch him just…exist. 

He wondered if anyone would ever watch him the way he watched Edward. 

***

If Jim did anything dominantly in his life, it was lingering. Figuratively, literally, and every possible meaning in between, he was constantly lingering. For the last few years, he felt like he’d been lingering between two different phases of his life, and going to college was supposed to change that. But here he was, again, lingering between worry and anger for his brother, lingering between anxiety and apathy about school, and lingering physically outside Oswald Cobblepot’s apartment door, trying to decide if he was going to knock or not. 

It was really a simple decision – they were both going to the same campus, at the same time. It would be nice if Jim offered him a ride. That would be it; there was nothing else to the offer other than friendship and…convenience. 

He pulled in a deep breath and raised his fist to knock – right when Oswald pulled the door open. 

“Oh, God, James,” Oswald exclaimed, jerking back so violently his coffee cup barely managed to stay in his hand. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Wish I could say I did it on purpose,” Jim shrugged ruefully. “I’m just about to head to campus. Do you need a ride?” 

Oswald raised his eyebrows, his bottom lip poking out just a smidge more than before. Jim noted the new facial expression with a momentary smile. “Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Course not,” he remarked, taking Oswald’s unguarded moment as an opportunity to take in his appearance. His brace was on and almost invisible against his dark slacks, his shirt deep blue. There was no tie today, but what looked like a cravat, tied against his throat. Something about its presence was bothersome, but why, he couldn’t say. All he knew was it was…hard not to look at it. 

“Okay,” Oswald said with a singular, deep nod, “I will just…let my driver know she can go.” 

“Your driver?” Jim repeated. 

Oswald didn’t answer, but stepped past Jim, his front door still ajar, and crossed to the end of the alcove, his eyes searching the parking lot. He waved at someone just out of Jim’s line of sight, once, then twice. 

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means,” a woman’s voice said, and with a glance back at Oswald’s open front door, Jim followed him. A girl with curly hair was hanging out of the back window of a truck, squinting suspiciously at Oswald. 

“I have a ride,” Oswald said in exasperation. “So you and Tabitha can go.” 

“Okay, well, if you already have a ride, can you take Selina to the campus?” the long haired girl that Jim remembered from his first awkward foray into a college bar said. “She’s doing some job for a weird kines professor.” 

The curly haired girl slid out of the back seat with a grimace, slamming the door behind her. Her walk, slightly awkward and loping, more feline than human, reminded Jim of something, a momentary detail he had already almost forgotten in the wake of the torrent of the past few weeks. Oswald glanced back at Jim in askance, clearly searching for his approval. Tabitha, seeing Oswald’s look, followed his eyes to Jim. 

“We can take her,” Jim replied belatedly.

“Thanks, you’re a peach,” she said, dry enough that Jim was pretty sure she was being sarcastic. “Cat, be at the quad at three so I can find you.” 

“Okay,” Cat (or was it Selina?) snapped sarcastically, trotting over to Oswald. “You look stuffy,” she remarked playfully, poking him in the nose. Oswald, much to Jim’s surprise, took the poke stoically, a slight twitch around his mouth the only indication that the girl had touched him at all. 

“It’s kind of part of the job description,” he said blandly. “Selina, this is Jim. Jim, Selina.” 

Jim offered her his hand, thoroughly unsurprised when she didn’t take it, but instead slapped it, like she was getting a high-five. “Don’t I know you?” he asked. 

“Nope,” she answered quickly. “Which car is yours?” 

Jim tilted his head in the direction of his car, clicking the remote to unlock it. Before he could ask another question, Selina was already climbing into the back seat, shutting the door securely behind her. Oswald turned back to him, his eyes quizzical. 

“I swear, I know her,” Jim insisted. 

“I need to lock my door,” Oswald said quietly, taking momentary hold of Jim’s forearm in a silent acceptance of Jim’s comment. It was an acknowledgment, a silent ‘I heard you, tell me in just a moment.’ Jim watched him go with a smile. 

“So do you like Penguin, or what?” Selina barked at him the moment he opened the door. 

“Penguin?” he asked. “That’s…not his name.”

“Okay, well, that’s his name other places,” Selina said. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

Trying to ignore the sense that he was being interrogated, he shrugged. “Of course I do. We’re friends.” 

Selina snorted, ducking her head out of Jim’s view from the rear mirror. “Sure.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jim asked, a trifle belligerently. “Oswald and I are friends.” 

“Is that why you bought him rugs for his apartment?” Selina asked, too intelligently for Jim’s liking. “And that’s why you’re taking him to work? And that’s why he’s touching your arm?” 

The sight of Oswald making his way back to the car sent Jim’s anxiety into overload. “I’m not talking about this with you,” he muttered, turning the key in the ignition. 

Selina, visible from the rear mirror again, shrugged indifferently. Jim wanted to press her, wanted to ask her what she’d heard from Oswald, what kind of information she was working with, but Oswald was already buckling himself into the passenger seat, his cologne just barely wafting through the car with help from the AC vents, and he was pushed into silence once more. 

***  
Oswald watched Jim and Selina talk from the shadow that obscured his place in front of his door. He hoped Selina knew to keep her mouth shut about things Jim obviously shouldn’t know. But he saw Selina duck her head to laugh, and his trepidation evaporated. Clearly she was just messing with Jim, as she was wont to do with anyone who gave her cause. 

He double checked his door, locked and secured, and made his way to the car, trying to quiet the excited little somersaults happening in his gut. 

He buckled himself in and watched Jim’s face out of the corner of his eye, just barely tenser than usual. 

“Pengy, Tabby wanted me to tell you that if you’re done by three today, she can bring you home when she picks me up,” Selina said, her eyes on an old flip phone. Oswald froze, his eyes on the road in front of him. Of all things he didn’t want brought up in front of Jim, his old street name was one of them.

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” he muttered.

“Would you prefer Ozzie?” she asked. 

“Probably,” he deadpanned. “Tell Tabby yes.” 

Jim, beside him, shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Selina, right?” he asked, lifting his chin to see the girl in the back seat. “I – I swear I’ve seen you before.” 

“And I swear you haven’t,” she said firmly, her eyes fixed to her phone. Oswald, already observant enough of her behavior to know when she’s lying, turned to catch her eyes over his shoulder. She met his gaze with an exaggerated eyeroll. 

“Do you go by the college often?” Jim pressed. 

“Nope.” 

He jutted his chin out, his brow furrowed. “What about the Green Jay?” 

“Ew.” 

Momentarily defeated, Jim tightened his grip on the steering wheel and drove on in silence. Oswald let the silence hang, unsure of how to start a different conversation than the one that remained unfinished. He tilted his head just slightly, enough to see Jim’s profile without directly looking at him. The stubble on his jaw was more pronounced than usual, but Oswald chalked that up to his brother’s influence. His shirt was gray and v-necked, his denim pants old and ragged on the bottom. But still, his hair was combed back, slick as ever. 

He looked good. 

With a quiet clearing of his throat, Oswald tugged on the cravat tied around his neck, suddenly self-conscious of his decision to wear it. Did Jim think it was pretentious? Or too gay? 

He didn’t have long to worry about it – Jim managed to find a parking spot fairly easily (a rare feat), and their time together was almost finished. As Jim put the car into park and pulled the keys out of the ignition, he turned to look at Selina, the furrow in his brow gone. 

“I figured it out!” he said. “You’re the girl who robbed the bar, aren’t you?”

Selina jerked her head back, her eyes a little too wide to be sincere. “What are you talking about?” 

“You were the one at the Sirens,” Jim said, with the confidence of a madman telling another a conspiracy theory. “You were the one who stole the money from the register!” 

“Oh my god, what are you, a cop?” Selina asked sharply, shoving the back door open. Oswald watched as she grabbed her bag, an old one of Oswald’s, and kicked the door closed, walking briskly away from the car without looking back. 

“I swear she’s the girl,” Jim said to Oswald, as if he knew what he was talking about. 

“James,” Oswald sighed. “Selina…cut her some slack, okay?” 

Jim pursed his lips. “Why would I do that? Because she’s so kind?” 

“I – I can’t talk about it right now,” Oswald hedged, grabbing his coffee before he could forget it. “But…just trust me.” 

Before Jim could ask another question Oswald couldn’t answer, he slipped out the door and followed Selina’s path, leaving Jim in the car alone.

***

Seeing Oswald early in the day made Jim restless; he tapped his foot through his English class, barely listening, his mind occupied. Oswald would get a ride home from Tabby, the dark-haired girl Jim definitely remembered from the Sirens. She was the girl whispering to Barbara, far too close to be just platonic. 

But he wanted to see Oswald again, if only so he could see that damned cravat up close. It was so old-fashioned, so needlessly fancy, it charmed Jim in a way he couldn’t explain. Perhaps it reminded him of Oswald himself. Alas, it seemed his desire would go unfulfilled; there was no reason to stop by Oswald’s apartment this evening. Jim didn’t want him thinking that he was…obsessed with him or anything. 

Their friendship was tenuous, or at least, it felt fragile. Jim was reluctant to do anything that might be considered too friendly, lest he push the boundaries of their friendship to a breaking point again. Clearly, Oswald wasn’t into him like that – he needed to get over it. 

***

Halfway down the hall to his apartment, Jim realized something was wrong. His brother, somehow suddenly unemployed or unwilling to leave the apartment, was visible from Jim’s point of view, a feat that should have been impossible had his front door been shut. But it wasn’t; it hung halfway open, lurched to the side, the deadbolt shattered, splintered wood all over the carpet. 

Tommy was standing in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee, long gone cold, staring at nothing in particular. Jim jogged through the front door, the thundering of his heartbeat loud in his ears, the explosions of Afghanistan ringing in his ears with the adrenaline. 

“Tommy?” he asked, frantic and far too loud. “Tommy, what happened? Are you alright?” 

His brother jolted out of his reverie, his hands around the coffee cup unsteady, a sheen of sweat bright on his forehead. Jim surveyed him closely, trying to find some good news. “Jimmy,” Tommy muttered, the word jumbled in his mouth. “The door.” 

“Yes, Tommy, I know,” Jim said, his teeth gnashed together. “Are you high right now?” 

Tommy, the color high in his cheeks, scoffed, but didn’t deny it. 

Jim snatched the coffee cup out of his hands, sloshing it all over them both, and slammed it onto the counter. “Tommy, what the fuck did you do?” 

Finally, as if it took great effort, Tommy’s eyes met his brother’s, and Jim could see it all there, the drugs and the hatred, simmering just below the surface. But Jim could not, no, he would not feel pity for him, not this time. 

“They had to do it, Jimmy. They had to,” Tommy said, the desperation edging into his voice. “I – I didn’t want them to, but I couldn’t pay –”

“Who?” Jim asked. “Who was it?” 

***

Oswald unsnapped the last of his leg brace, pride washing over him at the independence. It had taken him a while to get the hang of it, but now that he could do it, he was overjoyed that he would never need someone to help him remove it again. 

He set it on his dresser, beside his watch and wallet, and reached for his cane as a loud knock thundered through the apartment. 

“Selina, I swear, if you are ding-dong ditching me again –”

The knock came again, louder this time. 

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Oswald called impatiently, unhooking the chain and swinging the door open. Jim, without missing a beat, barreled inside, barely avoiding shoulder-checking Oswald out of the way. “James!”

“I’m sorry, I just –” he paused, long enough to take a deep breath, and Oswald could see he was shaking, visibly shaking, the vein in his forehead prominent. “My brother.” 

“What’s wrong with him?” Oswald asked, concerned. “Is he okay?” 

“He’s an addict,” Jim snapped. “He’s never okay.” 

“Alright,” Oswald acquiesced. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s wrong with him this time?” 

Jim, hearing the change in Oswald’s voice, paused in his pacing, his shaking suddenly more pronounced. “He got himself in trouble. Trouble enough that people broke into my apartment today to take things, things that – that –”

“Collateral,” Oswald breathed. “They took collateral. Who does he owe?” 

He didn’t know why he asked; he already knew. Why else would Jim come to him? But still, he wanted to hear Jim say it, if only to confirm his suspicions. Until the name came out of his mouth, Oswald could rationalize that he could be wrong. 

“Fish Mooney.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald goes to see Fish.

Oswald didn’t sleep that night; in fact, he didn’t do much of anything except stare in the vague direction of the window, his mind running faster than he remembered possible. Near him, but not too close, Jim slept fitfully on his small couch, covered in one of Oswald’s extra sheets. 

Hearing just a mention of Fish Mooney was like being pulled backward in time. Oswald felt, suddenly, like he was only sixteen years old again, gangly and razor thin, hiding baggies of drugs in the pockets of pants clearly not meant for him. He could inexplicably smell her perfume, oppressing and seductive, like a man’s cologne peppered with the petals of dying flowers. 

He was _scared._

Fish didn’t harbor ill will towards him, that much he knew. She said as much when he told her he was leaving, going to college full time so he could finish faster. She touched his face, her long nails just barely scratching his cheekbone, and said she’d always remember him as her umbrella boy. Her creation. 

It wasn’t Fish he was worried about, but the people close to her: Butch, Tabitha, hell, even Selina and Zsasz, who were far more inclined to treat him well. The streets had a different code; everyone became harder, colder there. 

His gaze drifted from the window to where Jim was sleeping. Jim came to him because he was afraid, because he thought Oswald could help. Jim, who had been helping Oswald since the day they met, both in ways he knew and didn’t, was finally asking for something in return, even if he hadn’t overtly said so.

As frightened as he was, Oswald was ready to give his help. 

In the dim light of early morning, Oswald rose from his bed, sheets tangled and pushed aside, and dressed in a pair of old black slacks, a black shirt, and a bowler hat. Fish would appreciate his penchant for dressing appropriately. On his way out, he grabbed a pair of green gloves and his phone. 

He didn’t leave Jim a note. 

***

“Penguin called,” Tabitha said groggily, tossing a pillow in Selina’s direction. It bounced off of her shoulder, but it was the name that roused her. 

“I thought we weren’t supposed to call him that anymore,” she grumped, sitting up and rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “He’s too good for that or whatever.”

“We do when he asks us to,” Tabitha pointed out. “Ring Fish and let her know she’s got a visitor, but keep it quiet.” She brushed past her young roommate to their shared closet, ratty and half-open. 

“He’s going to see Fish?” Selina breathed, reaching for her phone. “Do we get to be there, too?” 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Tabitha snapped, strapping her Bowie knife into the designated pocket in her jacket. “Just make the call. We leave in five.” 

“Fine,” Selina muttered, flipping open the phone and typing a text. It was sent in a matter of seconds. 

***

Fish’s bar looked virtually unchanged from the outside. It was still fading red brick, the smokestack at the top of the building funneling out thick, dark clouds. The graffiti had only faded with time, and Oswald found himself staring at it fondly, almost nostalgically, before he sighed and went inside. 

The inside was completely different. Instead of the almost vintage red, brown, and gold he remembered, the bar was full of marble, black, and a trim of silver. He admired the new surroundings, pointedly avoiding the spot he knew Fish always occupied, center of the floor, with a perfect view of the stage. He wanted to bask in the brusque flow of time for a moment, he wanted to relish in the past and the future coming together. 

“Pengy?” 

He froze, his eyes darting to find the culprit who blew his cover. A largely unfamiliar redhead was standing behind the bar, her bright green eyes glittering with excitement. She waved exuberantly. 

“Oh my gosh, Selina said she saw you but I didn’t believe it, it’s been so long!” the girl gushed, leaning her chin on her hand behind the bar. “Bet you don’t recognize me,” she said with a childish pout undone by the impish gleam in her eyes. 

Something about the movement was so familiar Oswald was almost ashamed he didn’t see it sooner. “Ivy?” he asked. “You…you got taller.” 

“It’s been a minute,” she agreed. “What can I get you? Your usual?” 

“You don’t know my usual,” Oswald pointed out. “You were like…ten when I left.” 

“And now I’m not,” she replied. “And it’s my job to know everyone’s usual.” 

“Then I’ll take my usual,” he said dubiously. “Is Fish busy?”

Ivy’s grin faded into something more business-like. “She’s waiting for you.” 

In fact, as Oswald got closer, trying to breathe past the anxiety clawing at his throat, he saw that the chair at Fish’s right hand was pulled out, clearly waiting for someone to take it. As he surveyed it, her voice, as if from a dream, reached him. 

“The prodigal son returns,” she murmured, her voice just as lyrical, and just as intimidating as he remembered it. “Take a seat.” 

He obliged her, his eyes slowly rising to her face as he slipped the bowler hat off his head. For a moment, he was staggered. She was exactly as she had been the day he left, as if made from stone. But even as he looked closer, his eyes taking in her dark eyes, the mischievous curve of her lips, her raised chin, he could see a scar, on her right eyebrow, fleshy and pink and new. 

“It’s been a long time,” he said as a greeting. 

She hummed in agreement, and in that moment of tranquility, Ivy slid in and gently placed a glass of merlot on the table, her hand barely brushing Oswald’s shoulder as she departed. 

“I take it you’re here for a favor,” Fish remarked. “Why else would you come to visit?” 

Oswald almost flinched, but something in him balked at the idea of showing weakness. Wasn’t that what Fish always taught him? Be strong, chin up, shoulders back, don’t let anyone intimidate you. 

“I do need a favor,” he admitted. “I would have come to visit sooner, but some of your colleagues made it clear that you didn’t want to see me.” 

“You _left_ me.” 

“You said it was okay,” Oswald reminded her calmly. “You told me you wanted what was best for me. You wanted me to get an education.” 

“Because you were supposed to come back,” she hissed, her long nails tapping on the table. “You were supposed to come back and be my right hand.” 

Oswald sighed, the unintended compliment both warming and chilling him. It pleased him to know that Fish thought he could be good enough to come back one day and rule beside her, but now, her confidence in his abilities worried him. What would she ask in return for this favor?

She might ask for something he wasn’t willing to give. 

“Well?” she asked, almost impatiently. “Are you at least going to tell me how you are?” 

“I have a master’s degree,” he offered timidly, unsure of where to begin. “I teach at the university.” 

Fish nodded, even though this was basic information; surely she knew it already. “And the boy? That…annoying one with the skinny neck?” 

“Ed?” Oswald blurted, louder than he intended. “How – how do you know about him?” 

Fish tutted, taking a sip of her own glass, two fingers of scotch, neat. “I keep track of all my children,” she said. “But Selina tells me you two are no more? You moved out.” 

“It didn’t go well,” Oswald admitted. 

Fish sighed. “Does it ever?” Then, when he didn’t answer, she turned her knees toward him, the glass held delicately in her hand. “Your talents are wasted on a lectureship at a university. You could run this town.” She surveyed his face, his styled hair, the set of his jaw. “You could _still_ run this town.” 

Oswald felt his chest warm with the praise, but an alarm bell was going off in his head. This was dangerous; Fish was great at manipulation, and she was even better at making you feel important. He took a sip of his wine. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said. 

“But you won’t do it.”

He furrowed his brow. “Did you think I would?” 

Fish shrugged, the nonchalant lift of one shoulder that reminded Oswald of his teenage years. He watched it with fondness. “I think, Oswald, that at the core of you’re being, you’re like me. You’re a shark. There’s no way you can be happy in a stable job, doing the same thing every day. You want danger, you want adventure –”

“I _wanted_ adventure,” Oswald corrected. “I don’t want it anymore.” 

“And yet, here you are, ready to ask Mommy for a favor, knowing what it’ll cost you,” Fish replied, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “If we must, let’s get down to business. Who are you here to save?” 

Oswald dropped one of his hands to his leg under the table, where he could fidget without being seen. “Tommy Gordon.” 

Fish raised her eyebrows, her lips turning downward in amusement. “Tommy friggin’ Gordon? Of all the people I have under my thumb, you want me to let go of Tommy? He’s nothing, he’s a peon.” 

Oswald didn’t answer, knew he wasn’t supposed to answer. He was just supposed to wait for the other shoe to drop. 

“Tell you what,” Fish continued, sparing Oswald half a glance. “I’ll let go of Tommy Gordon, sure. For my Penguin, I’ll make do.” 

“Really?” Oswald asked, against his better judgment. 

“If,” she raised one eyebrow, mocking him. “If you run one last job for ol’ Fish.” 

“Fish –”

“Call it nostalgia,” she interrupted, and he let her, knowing he had no leverage. “I want my favorite Penguin to do one last run.” 

Under the table, Oswald pinched his leg. “What’s the job?” he asked. 

Fish grinned. “I knew you’d say that. Don’t worry about it. Just finish your drink and go on home. Tell Tommy he’s safe.” 

“Thank you,” Oswald said breathily, knowing the deference was what she really wanted. Fish waved it off, modestly, and stood, beckoning a dark haired girl toward her. Oswald didn’t recognize her, but she slithered under Fish’s open arm and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the other woman’s cheek. 

“And when you tell Tommy he’s safe, make sure you tell his brother, too,” Fish said, pulling the girl with her as she floated away, adrift on her power. 

Oswald didn’t finish his drink. He stared at it, wondering in exceedingly desperate ways Fish was going to enact her revenge for his leaving. Was Jim going to be part of it? Was Ed? Was Selina? All three of them were options, or else she wouldn’t have mentioned them. Fish only did things deliberately. She didn’t just let slip important information. 

She knew how to get to him. The only variable that remained was to find out exactly what she wanted to make him feel. Pain? Loss? Grief? He wouldn’t know until it was too late.

All of the options were bad, but Fish still had a point. He needed to get home to tell Jim before he did something reckless to save his brother. 

***

Jim was still in Oswald’s apartment when he returned, his hair combed back by sheer will, the tracks of his fingers deep. He was in yesterday’s clothes, bare foot. He couldn’t bring himself to leave – where had Oswald gone? What if he needed him when he came back? And, worse, what if something worse had happened to Tommy while Jim had been gone? 

Ignorance, he decided, was better than knowing. 

The moment he heard the key scrape into the lock, he was up and jogging to the door, turning the lock and pulling it open fast enough that the door revealed Oswald, looking tired around the eyes, standing with his hand still curled around the key that had just been yanked from his hand. 

“James,” he breathed, as if he hadn’t expected to see him. “I – I thought you would have left –”

“I was worried,” Jim admitted, mercifully holding back the list of what exactly was worrying him. “Where were you?” 

Oswald stepped past him and into the apartment, carefully shutting the door and locking it behind him. He removed his bowler hat and tossed it onto the couch. “I went to see Fish,” he said, his hand rising almost unintentionally to undo the top button of his shirt. Jim’s eyes followed the movement. 

“You did… _what_?” 

“You were so worried –”

“Yeah, I was worried, but that didn’t mean that you had to go back there,” Jim exclaimed. “Fish is the one who hurt your leg!” 

“I was there, James, I remember,” Oswald replied gently. “But I couldn’t just…not help.” 

He was looking at Jim differently now, his eyebrows knit together in what could have been fear, or anxiety, and Jim realized, suddenly, that Oswald was afraid that his good deed would be punished. He was worried that Jim would be mad at him for trying to help. 

And even though he hadn’t done it yet, the pride had been there, if only momentarily. That knowledge sent a wave of guilt through Jim. To quell it, he closed his eyes and sighed. 

“I’m sorry you had to go back there,” he said softly. “But I am grateful for your help.” 

Oswald opened his mouth to respond, but closed it with a snap. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going,” he said. “I figured you wouldn’t want me to go.” 

“I wouldn’t have.” 

Oswald chuckled, with just a momentary raise of his eyebrows, pleased that he predicted him correctly. “It was nice to see Fish again, all circumstances aside. She agreed to forget your brother’s debt.” 

Jim released a gust of breath, his shoulders slumping in relief. He could hardly believe it. “She did? That’s great!” 

He wanted to hug Oswald, to do something other than just stand there, but he wasn’t sure what was proper, so he stayed still, both of them aware that something was missing, something hadn’t happened.

“Wait,” Jim said. “She just…decided to forget it? Just like that?” 

Oswald shrugged. 

“You said she was ruthless, you told me she was cunning and too smart for almost everyone,” Jim pointed out. “She would never forget a debt without payment.” 

Oswald still didn’t speak, but carefully pulled off one glove and tossed it over the arm of the couch. 

“What did she get you to do?” Jim asked. 

“Nothing,” Oswald defended as he fiddled with the other glove. “Yet.” 

_“Yet?”_

Oswald held his gaze, his lip twitching like he wanted to say something. Jim didn’t speak, but didn’t look away, content to let Oswald get the words out without more prompting. 

“She wants me to do one last run for her,” Oswald said in a rush. “As payment.” 

“Why – why would you agree to that?” Jim exclaimed, exasperated. “You can’t just – go back to doing what you were doing when you were a kid. For Tommy? No, you can’t.” 

“I promised her, Jim,” Oswald said firmly. “Besides, it’s just one run, that’s it.” 

“You don’t even know Tommy,” Jim insisted. 

Oswald sighed. “But I know you.” 

“That’s not enough!” Jim snapped. 

“Isn’t it?” Oswald replied. “Look, I can’t do much. I don’t drive, I had to have a teenage girl help me move into my apartment. Hell, I couldn’t even handle being rejected without a pep talk from a man I hardly knew.” 

He reached for Jim’s hand, and held it loosely in his own, brushing his thumb over the knuckles. 

“I can’t do much, but I could do this.” 

Jim’s grip on his hand tightened for a moment before he dropped it away to slip his arms around Oswald’s waist, pulling him into a gentle hug. Oswald stiffened for a moment before he too put his arms around Jim and squeezed, the action pulling Jim even closer, his nose buried in Oswald’s neck. They stayed like that for a long time, far longer than a hug asked for, Jim breathing in Oswald’s scent of comfort, Oswald gently running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Jim’s neck. 

“Thank you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim and Oswald separately come to their own conclusions about the other. Also, a quick appearance from Ed.

Jim couldn’t bring himself to go back to his own apartment until the next morning. That night he stayed with Oswald, too overwhelmed with gratitude and worry to leave him. Part of him thought that if he left, even for a moment, he would come back and Oswald would be gone, gone to do whatever bidding Fish asked of him, and Jim would be forced to wait with bated breath for him to return. And what if he didn’t? What then? 

Instead, he stayed, slept fitfully in Oswald’s bed beside him, still holding tightly to his hand. Every movement shook him awake, and he would spend the next few minutes with his eyes open, watching Oswald sleep, his dark hair loose and falling over his eyes, the lines in his face relaxed and soothing. 

Listening to Oswald’s steady breathing never failed to lull Jim back to sleep, but he always felt like he had one foot in the real world and one foot in dreamland; he was anxious, practically vibrating with worry. 

When Oswald woke the next morning, Jim was sitting on the bed beside him, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. He saw Oswald’s sleepy eyes find him and study him, and he didn’t try to stop it; he knew he probably looked terrible, but the heavy exhaustion was worth it. He had succeeded in keeping Oswald safe and beside him, and he rationalized the selfish thought away as nothing more than worry.

He didn’t want anything bad to happen to his friend. 

“You didn’t sleep,” Oswald’s raspy voice accused softly, and Jim’s stomach tightened at the sound of his sleep-laden voice. 

“You did,” Jim said simply, passing Oswald his cup of coffee. “That’s what’s important.” 

“Don’t deprive yourself of things like sleep for me,” Oswald reprimanded, the force only amplifying the texture of his voice. To appease him, but also get closer to that heady, intoxicating voice, Jim slid down onto his side, facing Oswald. He just liked the way his voice sounded when he woke up, he told himself against the loud thundering of his pulse in his ears. 

“Better?” he asked, and Oswald smiled down at him for a moment, satisfied. 

“Good,” Oswald murmured, sitting up straight and cradling the cup of coffee more expertly. “Now stay there until you have to get up.” 

“You’re using your teacher voice,” Jim pointed out, feeling warmth spreading over his cheeks. Oswald looked down at him and did a double-take, though what exactly caught his attention, Jim didn’t know, and was too scared to ask. 

“Sorry,” he said without sounding truly sorry. 

Jim almost smiled, but instead shrugged. “Don’t be. I like it.” 

“Do you now?” Oswald asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his coffee. “Noted.” 

Jim wasn’t sure exactly what he was noting or what he was planning on doing with it, but nevertheless, he squirmed slightly in his place and said nothing more, content to let his mind wander. 

***

“James?” 

Jim, who had managed to doze off by the barest minimum, jolted awake at the soft sound of Oswald’s voice. He was standing over him, his hands buttoning up the last of the buttons of his shirt, and Jim watched his nimble fingers work, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“James.” 

“What?” he asked quietly, watching Oswald tie his cravat, already unable to look away. 

“I have class in twenty minutes,” Oswald reminded him. “Which means, you do too.” 

“You know what you should do?” Jim asked, his hand reaching up and not quite making it to the cravat, “you should skip.” 

Oswald exhaled an exasperated laugh. “I can’t skip my own class.” 

“Send an email,” Jim countered, scooting toward Oswald, his hand still lazily reaching up for the knotted cravat. Oswald caught his hand gently, and gave him a firm look. “Stay here with me.” 

Oswald looked tempted, even Jim could see him considering the possibility, his eyes scanning over Jim, still covered in the sheet, his left foot just barely peeking out. In his moment of distraction, Jim tugged him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and finally got his hands on the cravat, his hands too hesitant to do more than gently brush the silk. 

“I can’t,” Oswald said softly, looking down at him from hooded eyes. “And we shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Jim asked, pulling himself up so he could meet Oswald’s eye. Up here, he was almost dangerously close, his hand settling gently on Oswald’s chest, his fingers still brushing the silk cravat. Oswald closed his eyes, and Jim thought he’d finally convinced him. Perhaps Oswald really felt the same about Jim, perhaps he was just as affected. 

And then Oswald’s hand caught Jim’s own and pulled it away from his neck, covering it for just a moment before he stood. 

“You need to go to class,” he said, a hint of his teacher voice returning. “You can come back here after class.” 

“Promise?” Jim breathed, and he definitely saw the muscles in Oswald’s jaw tense this time. 

“Yeah, I promise.” 

***

While Jim went to change his clothes, Oswald closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was so easy to get close to Jim, especially when he was tracing absentminded circles into Oswald’s chest, especially when he turned fitfully in his sleep and the blanket slid down to his waist, his shirt just high enough that Oswald could see the scar, the first bit of Jim he ever touched. 

Jim’s hands on his chest had been almost unbearable; the last time Oswald had been touched like that, it was by Edward, whose touches now felt false, or suspicious. He was wary, possibly too wary; wasn’t Jim asking him to stay in bed with him all day proof enough that Jim cared for him? What more did he want? 

“Ready,” Jim called, pulling his shirt down over his hips as he left the bathroom, hair just tousled. “What?” 

Oswald quickly rearranged his face, looking down at his now empty cup of coffee. “What?” 

“You were looking at me funny,” Jim pointed out. “You okay?” 

Oswald glanced up at him, Jim’s legs almost touching his own, concern written all over his face. His eyes were shining with that same adoration Oswald used to feel when he looked at Edward. Crap, he thought anxiously, maybe Jim really did return his affections. 

Maybe his feelings weren’t going to be unrequited for once. “Yeah,” he said, his voice just barely catching. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

The idea was more terrifying than Oswald wanted to admit. 

“I need to swing by my apartment to grab my books really quick,” Jim continued, grabbing his bag from beside the door. “It’ll take two minutes.” 

Oswald didn’t say anything, but followed Jim out the door, locking the door behind him. Jim was wearing the same pants as the day before, the ones with the torn belt loop, and he found himself staring at it as Jim naturally took the lead. There was a domestic hint to what they were doing, getting ready for the day together, trying to convince each other to ignore the world for the other. 

Oswald never really thought he’d get it, not really. Having even a taste of it now was almost overwhelming. He was prepared, at every moment, to wake up from the dream, even if this dream was still tainted with Fish Mooney, with Jim’s brother, and with the distant threat of Ed.

The door to Jim’s apartment was just barely open, the door hanging slightly off its hinges. Oswald narrowed his eyes at it when Jim’s hand came up and blocked Oswald from coming any closer. Wordlessly, he touched Jim’s hand, a quick reassurance. 

“Tommy?” Jim called, cautious, his voice soft. 

“Jimmy?” A younger version of Jim, with darker hair, stuck his head out of the door. “I thought something happened to you.” His eyes caught sight of Oswald, and his gaze hardened. “Who’s this?” 

“This is a friend of mine,” Jim hedged, casting a glance back at Oswald with a momentary shake of his head. “Leave him alone.” 

Tommy spared Oswald one more look before he turned back to his brother. “Hey, look, I uh, almost got the door fixed.” 

“Don’t fix the door,” Jim sounded exhausted all over again, and Oswald felt a rush of sympathy, of affection. “Just leave it alone. I’ll fix it later.” 

“I already did it,” Tommy argued, a sheen of sweat standing out on his forehead. 

Jim stepped past his brother to the table just inside the door, where he scooped up a dark red textbook and slid it into his bag. “You mean you got high and bored, and decided to fix something you have no idea how to fix.” 

Oswald flinched at his tone; even though it had nothing to do with him, he’d never heard Jim use that voice. It was hard, steely, and when Tommy sighed heavily, Oswald couldn’t blame him. 

“I didn’t –”

“I don’t have time for this,” Jim interrupted. “I have to go to class.” 

Before Tommy could say anything else, Jim had pushed past him and back out the door, his eyes landing on Oswald’s just long enough for Oswald to understand everything he felt: betrayal, fear, guilt. 

***

“Mr. Gordon,” Galavan’s voice was smooth, almost saccharine, but Jim knew better than to believe it. “Would you like to comment on the discussion at hand? Or were you going to spend the entire fifty minutes staring at your phone?” 

Jim jolted out of his reverie, the movement pushing his phone off of his notebook. “I’m sorry, sir –”

“I’m sorry, sir, he says, trying to hide the fact that he’s been texting all class long,” Galavan said to the class at large. The students tittered, the sound more a movement than anything else. They all knew better than to ignore a Galavan joke by now. “Instead of distracting yourself from my lecture, why don’t you contribute to the discussion?” 

Jim felt his face flush. “And…what was the discussion?” he asked.

Galavan sighed, his face still faux-sweet enough that Jim felt the burn of condescension. “We are discussing moral policy. Is it moral to spend taxpayer dollars on things that might be morally ambiguous?” When Jim looked confused, he continued, “For example, should the taxpayers be paying for things like STD screenings for prostitutes? Should we be paying for birth control? Should we be paying for the life-saving drugs that keep addicts alive when they overdose?” 

The mention of addicts sent a shiver through Jim, and he struggled to keep his face impassive. “Who are we hurting if we don’t pay for those things?” he asked. 

Galavan glared at him, as if he were stupid for not understanding his point immediately, or perhaps he was angry that Jim didn’t agree with him. “The taxpayers are the ones hurting.” 

“Because their taxes are going toward something that helps people?” Jim asked. “Most people don’t even know how their taxes are spent.” 

“Not all of us sail through life, blissfully ignorant,” Galavan chuckled, and one of the brown nosers at the front of the class followed suit. “Some of us pay attention.” 

“If you were paying attention,” Jim pointed out, “you would know that our taxpayer dollars already don’t pay for those things, but you know what? They should. And they should pay for the necessary therapy soldiers need when they come back from combat zones. Why should we be paying taxes for the good of our country when the country won’t take care of us in return?” 

“Mr. Gordon –”

“It seems like your moral policies, Dr. Galavan, are nothing more than ways you can show your students who you consider to be second-class citizens,” Jim said, leaning back in his chair. 

“Mr. Gordon!” Galavan snapped. “You will show me respect in the classroom.” 

“Of course, sir,” Jim said with a slight bow of his head. “I apologize.” 

***

Jim didn’t return to Oswald’s apartment until almost 9 p.m.; his knock was loud and sharp. Oswald, who had been anxiously awaiting his return, jumped up from his seat, his hand grappling for his cane. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rehearsing what he wanted to say for the umpteenth time. 

He had come to a conclusion in the middle of his class that morning. During a lecture about self-destructive behaviors, he paused, thinking obliquely about Jim, and himself, and their own holding pattern. Was what they were doing self-destructive? Or were they really just two people who needed support, who found it in someone unexpected? 

He smiled to himself, proud that he managed to finally admit what he’d known for a long time. 

The knock came again, the same three raps, and Oswald flung the door open. 

“Jim –” he froze, his eyes sweeping, instead, upward. “Oh. Edward.” 

“May I?” Edward asked, peering past Oswald into his apartment. 

Suddenly, Oswald remembered the disheveled bed, Jim’s shirt strewn across the sheets, the two coffee cups in the sink. Swallowing thickly, he stepped aside, allowing Ed to enter and scrutinize for himself. 

“You didn’t tell me where you were moving,” Edward said, the accusatory tone just barely peeking through. “You didn’t even tell me you were moving out.” 

“I thought it was for the best,” Oswald sniffed, closing the door behind Ed and retreating back to his couch. “We weren’t exactly on the best of terms.” 

“But we were still friends, weren’t we?” Ed asked, his head definitely turned in the direction of Jim’s discarded shirt. “Aren’t we?” 

Oswald shrugged. “It isn’t exactly a good friendship when one uses the other for sex while in a relationship, don’t you think?” 

“I haven’t explained –”

“No, you certainly did explain,” Oswald interrupted, “it was just a terrible excuse.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ed snapped, exasperated. 

“How about you’re sorry?” Oswald offered sarcastically. “Because you unwittingly made me party to cheating, you used me for your own ego, and then you took me out on a fake lunch date because you were jealous.” 

“I was not jealous,” Ed retorted. “I was just…” 

Oswald dropped his chin to his hand. “You were just what? Trying to protect me? By, again, lying to me.” 

“I didn’t lie to you initially,” Ed countered. “I just didn’t tell you.” 

“You just didn’t tell me that you were in a relationship?” Oswald exclaimed. “That’s what your brilliant mind came up with? Is that how you rationalized sleeping with me? It wasn’t cheating because you didn’t say it out loud?” 

Ed ran his fingers through his hair, mussing his careful part. “You’re being impossible.” 

“I’m sorry, Ed, allow me to lie on the floor so you can walk all over me one more time,” Oswald snapped. 

“That’s not what happened,” Edward sneered, pacing around the space, his eyes searching every unfamiliar corner. Oswald watched him do it, for once feeling proud of himself for learning all he did about Ed while they were roommates. While he loved him. Ed only paced like that when he knew he lost an argument, when he was sure there was a strategic way to win if only he could jog his mind in just the right way. 

“What happened was, you were jealous that I was connecting with someone who wasn’t you, and you had sex with me,” Oswald said, emphasizing each word, “and then you woke up the next day and decided it hadn’t happened, and what I thought didn’t matter.” 

“I didn’t!”

“You did!” Oswald shouted back. “And then you went back to your girlfriend, you sinful night of homosexuality forgotten, pushed to the back of your brilliant brain.” 

Ed opened his mouth furiously to respond, the color high in his cheeks, but another set of knocks interrupted him. 

“It’s open,” Oswald called out. 

Jim stepped inside, his eyes just slightly wider than usual. “Um, I can come back –”

“Ed was just leaving,” Oswald said, turning back to his old roommate. “Come in, relax.” 

Ed watched Jim carefully close the door and drop his bag by the couch, his eyes straying back to Ed often. Oswald refused to look in Ed’s direction, busying himself with unlocking the door Jim had just locked to open it for Ed. 

“We aren’t finished,” Ed argued. 

“We are,” Oswald said firmly. “Next time you want to visit, try calling first.” 

Ed sighed, his eyes alternating between Oswald and Jim. Finally, when it seemed his pride would kick back in, he retreated to the door, pausing to look back at Oswald like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and closed the door instead. 

***

Jim’s eyes carefully followed Oswald as he limped into the kitchen, his gait a little heavier than usual. He fiddled with the few dishes in the sink, moving them around before deciding against washing them and then leaning against the counter. 

“Are you alright?” he asked finally, and Oswald jumped like Jim had shouted at him. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Oswald said, pushing himself off the counter and moving toward him. “I just…wasn’t expecting him, that’s all.”

“I can tell,” Jim agreed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I could hear you down the hall –”

“Great,” Oswald groaned, falling gracefully down onto the couch. 

“I mean…I guess I already knew what happened,” Jim continued. “But, you know, since we never talked about it –”

“It was a mistake,” Oswald said fervently, dropping his forehead to his hands. “A complete mistake.” 

“You don’t have to say that,” Jim replied. “Not for me.” 

Oswald sighed, but didn’t contradict him. Jim let him sit in the silence for a while, content to allow him the time he needed to process Ed’s sudden reappearance. But the silence also gave him time to dwell on all the things they’d done, and what they’d hadn’t done. And hadn’t said. 

“I’m sorry I crossed a line,” he said softly. “When I was your student.” 

Oswald glanced up at him, surprise written all over his face, and then laughed. “God, don’t – please don’t apologize.” He turned his knees toward Jim, his eyes still blue-grey, still soothing and soft. “I wanted you to cross that line,” he said it so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I wanted you to drag me over that line.” 

A sweet, delicious ache spread through Jim’s chest. “Yeah?” He asked, unable to piece together much of a thought beyond that. 

Oswald laughed again, a nervous chuckle that Jim was rapidly growing fond of. “Yeah,” he agreed. 

Jim beamed at him, the smile unabashed and warm. “Well, in the spirit of good confessions, can I say something?” he asked, scooting toward Oswald on the couch. 

“Of course,” Oswald replied, looking instantly worried. 

Jim raised a finger and tilted Oswald’s chin up. “I am…obsessed with this,” he said, his finger on Oswald’s chin trailing down to the cravat, still tied around Oswald’s neck. He barely brushed it, his finger touching gently the skin of Oswald’s neck. 

“Really?” Oswald asked breathlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Why?” 

“I have no idea,” Jim said quietly, carefully pulling the cravat loose, his eyes attentively following the knot. “But I love it.” 

Oswald’s breath was short, the pulse in his neck just a little too fast. “Yeah? Then do what you must, James.” 

With permission, Jim carefully untied the careful knot, making sure to graze his fingers over Oswald’s neck as often as possible, relishing in the way Oswald’s eyes would flutter closed, or find his own gaze in the soft light. It was like being drunk, watching what he always imagined excitement and arousal would look like in Oswald’s tempting eyes. He wanted more of it. 

With the cravat undone, Jim slid the silk from around Oswald’s neck. “What now?” he asked. 

Oswald, his head fallen back onto the couch cushions, tilted his head in Jim’s direction, his eyes dark. “Take what you want,” he said firmly, the sentence not a suggestion but a demand.

Immediately, and too quickly, Jim shifted toward him, his hand rising to brush against Oswald’s cheek. Oswald allowed it, malleable in his hands. They were nose to nose now, Oswald’s pulse shuddering against Jim’s pinkie, his lips parted and tempting. 

“Can I?” Jim asked, breathless. 

“Please.” 

Jim met Oswald’s lips with more tenderness than he was expecting; it was so soft, so achingly sweet, Oswald could have wept. Jim was forcing nothing, taking nothing, but accepting what Oswald was giving. It was gentle, it was languid, longing and adoring. Oswald kissed back slowly, allowing himself the depth of feeling, letting the emotions wash over him one by one. 

Jim opened his mouth at the slightest probing, and Oswald groaned against his mouth, the sound only spurring Jim on. He licked, just gently, at the inside of Oswald’s mouth, his hands pressing against Oswald’s neck, where the cravat had been, the other brushing against his chest.

Oswald pulled away, taking a moment to just look at Jim, his cheeks flushed and his chest heaving, all from just a few soft kisses. Oswald ran his fingers through his slicked back hair and cradled the back of his head. He pressed a kiss to Jim’s lips, and one to his forehead.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said. “Sleep this time.” 

Jim, instead of answering, gave him another kiss, this one harder, with a little nip of his teeth before he pulled away. Oswald flushed all the way to his ears; it would be hard to sleep tonight.


End file.
